Where Your Treasure Is
by zeegrindylows
Summary: SS/HG. Post-Deathly Hallows. Severus Snape survives, only to find himself entangled in an enchantment he never expected. COMPLETE.
1. The End is the Beginning

**DISCLAIMER:** The dialogue in this chapter is quoted from the last half of Chapter 32 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (pages 652-658). As such, it is the exclusive property of JK Rowling. I bow to her brilliance and merely quote it for the purpose of adding my own commentary and interjections on what I hope was going through Severus Snape's mind at the time.

All characters are also, of course, JKR's property. I'm nowhere near smart or creative enough to make them up on my own.

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Chapter 1: The End is the Beginning 

When Lucius found him and said that the Dark Lord had summoned him to the Shrieking Shack, Severus knew it was his last chance. He kept looking wildly around for Potter as he ran. Surely, surely after all this time, after everything he had done, after even killing Dumbledore, he couldn't fail now.

But Potter was nowhere to be found, and Severus felt a sudden sickening fear that the boy had already been killed. He had to keep looking. He needed more time. But it was too late, and there was no more time. He had to face the Dark Lord, and probably to die. By now, Voldemort had probably realized that the Elder Wand was not working as it ought, and he would have drawn his conclusions. Severus clenched his teeth. He could only hope that Voldemort had mistakenly identified him as the wand's true master, and not Draco.

Although he had fulfilled Narcissa's terms for his Unbreakable Vow, it seemed that all of Severus' years spent under the tutelage of the unmistakably Gryffindor headmaster had altered him. No longer could he simply worm his way out of it and leave Draco to die, slimy and unworthy as the boy was. Lucius and Narcissa had been kind to him, in their way, the closest he had come to having real friends outside of the Hogwarts staff. And they were frantic about Draco: even as he delivered the Dark Lord's message, Lucius' eyes had been scanning wildly for any sign of his son.

He immobilized the Whomping Willow and threw himself into the tunnel. Best get this over with, before this unusual streak of bravery and self-sacrifice had spent itself and he was tempted to repay Lucius and Narcissa's years of kindness with—what? With the very choices that they would say made him a Slytherin to begin with? With proper Death Eater behavior? But it was behavior like that which had led him to Voldemort in the first place, and which had led to Lily's death. And he had long ago decided that it was Lily who had made the right choice, in the end. Clearly, guile wasn't everything.

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, forcing himself to become calmer. By the time he was through the tunnel and at the door to the room where he knew the Dark Lord waited, he knew that any Legilimens who encountered him would see his mind as a blank wall.

Once, he had not been so readily able to hide his thoughts from his master. In fact, had it not been for Lily's life, he would never have made it as a spy when her death forced him to do so. Some things were simply too private to allow the Dark Lord to touch, and no mental strength on Voldemort's part could break through the force of Severus' refusal to allow them to be violated. He hid every secret he had behind the most precious secret he had--that of her face in his dreams.

"My Lord," he murmured deferentially, falling to his knees before the repulsive, scaly figure of his so-called master. His occlumentic walls were high. His mind was a virtually impregnable fortress, behind whose smooth façade roiled a loathing such as he had not known could exist until the day that Voldemort had arrived in Godric's Hollow.

"Severus," he responded, and Severus knew it was safe to stand up, to open his eyes. He would not be killed instantly, then. That was good. Perhaps he could buy some more time, try again to find Potter, to pass on the Headmaster's last message. Knowing it was probably futile, he chose to assume that he had merely been called to give a progress report on the battle.

"We shall be victorious, my Lord, their resistance is crumbling—" he began, feeling oddly detached. Everything seemed unreal, as though he were watching it in a pensieve.

"—And it is doing so without your help," Voldemort interrupted. Severus forced himself not to flinch. "Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there…almost."

He felt a sudden twinge of regret. He had failed. Death held little fear for him as a concept; he had been longing to meet it for so many years. But he was not ready. He had not found Potter, and the secret of the horcrux (for when Dumbledore had given him the message, he had realized to his horror what it referred to) would die with him. "Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter," he said, struggling to keep himself from sounding too desperate. _I'm sorry, Lily_, his mind screamed. "I know I can find him my Lord. Please." He kept his head high, projecting as much confidence as he could.

He crossed the room nervously, looking out the window. The Dark Lord stood. It did not bode well for him. Severus stole a surreptitious glance at the man he had been forced to call his master for so long. _Forced through your own idiocy and pride, Severus_, he reminded himself. The red eyes glinted with an evil that made his stomach turn. "I have a problem, Severus," he hissed through his horrible slit of a mouth.

"My Lord?" his heart sank. It would surely be about the Elder wand. If Voldemort had summoned Severus and not Draco, then at least a few of his secrets were still safe. But it meant he would die, and the secrets would die with him, unrevealed, even to those who desperately needed to know.

"Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?" he asked. Severus hissed through his teeth softly.

"My—my Lord?" he forced himself to remain as unemotional as possible, to sound more confused than he felt. In fact, he wasn't sure he remembered ever having such clarity of mind. Perhaps it was the sure knowledge of his imminent death that did it. He knew precisely why it didn't work, and he gloated over it inwardly. "I do not understand," he lied, "You have performed extraordinary magic with that wand." _But not extraordinary enough_, his mind added, knowing what would come next.

"No, I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand…no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago." There was a pause. Snape watched the Dark Lord's face, which was thoughtful, and almost as impassive as his own. "No difference." There was nothing to say. There was no point in lying further. Voldemort knew that the wand he had stolen from Dumbledore's tomb was not yet truly his. But he was continuing to speak, and Severus forced himself to listen. "I have thought long and hard, Severus…Do you know why I have called you back from battle?"

_Yes_. "No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter." He had to find him. He was not enough of a fool to think that the afterlife did not exist, and he would have to face both Lily and Albus there, and explain to them that he had failed. He didn't think he could bear it. _Help me, Lily_, he pleaded in his mind, far more abjectly than he would ever have pleaded with the scum who had killed her.

"You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not _need_ finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come." Severus winced internally, although his features remained steadfastly immobile. Potter's greatest flaw, as Voldemort saw it, was ironically identical to his mother's greatest virtue. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Some perverse part of him wanted to smile, in spite of the circumstances. Somehow, hearing it from the Dark Lord made it more true to him than all of the times Albus had insisted that it was so. Harry—he used the boy's given name in his mind for practically the first time—was far more like Lily than he had previously allowed himself to imagine.

The thought gave him a renewed desire to find the boy, to communicate with him, even to share perhaps more than one secret. "But my Lord," he began, with a sudden new inspiration, "he might be killed accidentally by one other than yourself—"

"My instructions to my Death Eaters have been perfectly clear," snapped Voldemort. He was beginning to lose patience with Severus' dissembling, apparently. "Capture Potter. Kill his friends—the more, the better—but do not kill him. But," he continued, after another moment's pause, "it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable."

He suddenly remembered how abjectly delighted that statement would have made him, eighteen years ago. Had he ever really been that similar to Wormtail, the sneaking, sniveling…? But of course he had. "_Snivellus_," said James Potter's pompous voice somewhere in the depths of his memory, and he frowned. Ironic, that Lily's obtuse, unworthy husband had identified so clearly in Severus what he had failed to see in Pettigrew. Then again, Severus had seen it in Pettigrew and failed to understand. All of those years, he had hated Sirius Black far more for betraying Lily than for attempting to kill _him_. He shook himself from his thoughts, forced himself to attend.

"My Lord knows I seek only to serve him," he said silkily, feeling a sense of self-satisfaction at his ability to lie so blatantly to the creature he hated most in the world. "But let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can—"

"I have told you, no!" Voldemort snapped. This time, Severus did flinch. He was pushing his luck. _But I'm going to die anyway_, he reminded himself. _I have nothing left to lose, and everything to gain_. "My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!"

"My Lord, there can be no question, surely--?"

"But there is a question, Severus. There is." Severus forced himself not to look directly at the Dark Lord as the words reached him. If Albus was right, Voldemort did not know he had created a horcrux using Harry's body. He would not run the risk that the Dark Lord might penetrate even his skilled occlusion and discover the secret at the last moment. "Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?"

_Because Lily Evans outclassed you more than you can possibly imagine_. "I—I cannot answer that, My Lord."

"Can't you? My wand of yew did everything I asked of it, Severus," Voldemort was nearly ranting now, the words rushed and angry, lacking their usual sibilance. "Except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another's wand. I did so, but Lucius' wand shattered upon meeting Potter's."

_Because you were an arrogant fool, Tom Riddle_. "I—I have no explanation my Lord." He lowered his eyes. The force of Voldemort's anger was palpable and oppressive. But Severus wanted to laugh at him, to mock him for his failure. Voldemort was still talking, ranting about the Elder wand.

"—I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore," he was saying. The words chilled him. Bad enough that he had been forced to kill the man who had loved him in spite of knowing even his deepest and most terrible secret. But to be forced to pay lip service to the beast that had desecrated his best friend's grave was intolerable. He channeled his surge of hatred, used it to strengthen his occlusion again, and then he raised his head. He buried his stray thoughts and emotions so deeply that it was like they suddenly disappeared.

"My Lord—let me go to the boy—" he was running out of chances. And if Voldemort didn't either kill him or let him go find Potter soon, Severus feared was going to throw his life away on a futile attempt to murder the Dark Lord himself.

"All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refused to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner…and I think I have the answer." Severus kept his mouth shut tightly and didn't respond, although the Dark Lord's pause seemed to be an invitation to do so. Voldemort shifted restlessly. "Perhaps you already know it?" he sneered, "You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen."

"My Lord—" this was it. He was going to die. He chanced another look at the Dark Lord's face and realized suddenly that in some part of Voldemort's mind, the regret was real. Severus could identify that part easily; it was more commonly referred to as the imagination.

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the elder wand cannot truly be mine."

Draco would be safe, at least. He wondered if Lucius and Narcissa would ever realize that Severus had, in the end, willingly given his life to save his godson. "My Lord!" he forced himself to say, raising his hand as though he would seriously attempt a defense. He wondered briefly whether it was due to Lily that he was able to do this, to sacrifice himself for Draco as she had done for Harry. He felt a surge of triumph such as he had never known before. He might have failed in some respects, but he could hold his head up high when he met Lily and Albus again. He could know that they would recognize that in the last moments of his life, he had chosen to side himself with them rather than the Slytherin impulses he had been taught to nurture since he was a young boy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Albus saying, "_You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon_…" and again, he wanted to smile.

"It cannot be any other way," Voldemort was saying, and Snape heard it as though from a great distance. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last." Severus felt like laughing. The Dark Lord jabbed the wand at him and nothing happened. Severus wondered for a second if somehow the wand prevented Voldemort from killing anyone at all.

And then the cage was flying at him and encasing him. He shouted, letting the Dark Lord have his show. Inside, there was a joy building in his chest, a joy such as he had never felt before. Nagini's fangs sank into his neck and he screamed. The sound was awful, startling even him. He could feel blood pulsing over his skin, hot and thick and sticky. He collapsed.

"I regret it," came Voldemort's voice from somewhere, cold and unfeeling. The beginnings of a grim smile began to tug at the corners of Severus' mouth before a spasm of pain wracked his face instead. He sensed, rather than saw, the Dark Lord turn away. The cage lifted off of his body and the side of his face slapped against the hard floor. Blood was pooling around him, gushing in angry spurts with the frantic beating of his heart. Nagini's aim had been true. Voldemort left and, somewhere, unbeknownst to Severus, Harry Potter's eyes left the scene.

He reached a shaking hand into his robes and drew out a flask. For perhaps half a second, he hesitated. He wanted Lily; wanted to see her again, to hear her voice. He was sure, somehow, that she would be there to meet him. And Albus, he knew, would be there as well. But he had one last duty to fulfill, and he could not do it if he were dead. He certainly didn't intend to become a ghost. They would be parted forever if he did that.

And so he swallowed the potion he had prepared. He'd been expecting _Avada Kedavra_, and it was a stroke of luck that Voldemort had attempted to murder him using the snake instead. He had spent months on the potion, anticipating just such a circumstance as this, brewing feverishly in the secret of the Headmaster's office. If he lived, he could make a fortune with it—it was quite possibly the most potent healing potion ever invented. He let his head fall to the floor. The wounds would close in a few moments, he knew; the blood would cease to flood from his body. And then, hopefully, he would survive long enough to find the boy and fulfill his final duty to Lily's son.

His entire body was shaking from loss of blood. He saw, as if from far away, his own hand, whiter than he had ever seen it before, flying up towards his neck and pressing into the wound, instinct forcing him to clutch at it even though he knew he had a good hope of survival now.

And then, miracle of miracles, the boy appeared in front of his eyes. He stared and wondered for a moment if he was hallucinating. But Harry was bending over him, was looking at him with an expression of horror and—could it be? Regret? For the first time, he saw more of Lily in Harry than just her eyes. It was odd to him, that James Potter's face could so perfectly mimic the mannerisms and expressions of Lily Evans.

Unconsciousness was beginning to steal over him, and he struggled to focus. He reached up and grabbed Harry, dragging the boy down. Nagini had partially punctured his windpipe and speech was difficult. He had to be sure that Lily's son heard him.

"Take… it" he demanded, and tasted blood gurgling up from his throat. It erupted from his mouth, and he felt it flowing along his face. He caught a glimpse of movement behind Harry, and saw the Granger girl staring strangely at the flask that lay nestled into a fold of his robes. Brilliant girl, she was. "Take… it" he insisted again, and with a supreme effort, he wandlessly forced his memories to leave him. He gave up more of them than he had originally intended. For the first time in his life, he wanted Harry to know how much he had loved the boy's mother. The boy… who looked so much like her that it sent a pang of longing to his heart so painful that for a moment he forgot he was bleeding, possibly to death, all over the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

Granger thrust the flask into Harry's hands, and he didn't ask where it had come from. Severus could feel the blood flow slowing, knew that the wound was beginning to knit itself back together from the inside out. He breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. Harry was gathering the memories into the flask, not looking at him, and once again all Severus could see was James Potter. Still not knowing whether he would live or die, he could not bear for James' face to be the last thing he saw.

"Look…at…me…" he whispered. He was begging now, something he had refused to do in front of Voldemort. But this was different. Harry's eyes met his and the rest of the world seemed to disappear. Warmth was suffusing his shivering body. Blackness was creeping in around him, and all he could see was Lily's beautiful, beautiful eyes. Then the potion took him over completely and for a long time, he knew no more.


	2. The Prince and the Potter

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 2: The Prince and the Potter**

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He was lying on the floor outside the Gryffindor common room as the portrait of the Fat Lady swung closed and separated him from Lily with a finality that rent his heart. As soon as he was certain that the portrait hole had closed completely, he let go of all his self-control. He sobbed miserably, not caring who heard. If he did not cry, he knew that his heart would explode and he would die where he lay.

"Didn't you hear her?" he heard the Fat Lady saying, her voice full of disdain. "Go back to your dungeon and your Dark Lord. You're not wanted here."

He dragged himself to his feet, wiping the tears from his face and once again forcing himself into silence. With a last scowl at the Fat Lady, who was glaring at him murderously, he fled down the stairs. As he ran towards his own common room, he wondered if he would ever be able to talk to her again, or if that had been their final goodbye. He suddenly felt unequal to facing his fellow Slytherins, and took a detour outside, slipping past Filch to do so.

As soon as the cool night air hit him, he drew a deep breath. Darkness enclosed him and he was blessedly alone. He found himself wandering across the grounds, retracing the steps he had taken so many times that led him beneath the willow tree.

The place where it had happened. Where he'd ruined everything. It only made sense that it would have happened there, he supposed. Everything happened there.

He placed one hand on the trunk of the tree, gazing up into the leaves. They were dimly lit in the full, bright moonlight. Somewhere in the distance he fancied he heard Lupin's howls as he lay in the Shrieking Shack. He closed his eyes and thought back.

"_Isn't it beautiful?" Lily was saying as she gazed into the tree. He was staring at her red hair, wondering what she would do if he reached out to touch it. He had often wondered that, ever since the first day he saw her and Petunia in the playground. The sunlight was glinting in it, making it look like it might at any moment catch fire. He tore his eyes away and looked at the tree. It was massive, and the boughs were heavy and hung down so low that in places they brushed the ground, creating tiny enclosures fashioned of leaves and silvery, graceful branches._

"_Yes," he agreed. It was only to her that he would ever have admitted to appreciating the beauty of the huge, graceful object that stood before them--but with her, he didn't mind. They had spent the last week exploring every inch of Hogwarts between classes, and somehow they always ended up back here. She seemed transfixed by it. Nothing in the neighborhood where they grew up had even come close. She turned to look at him, and there was laughter in her eyes._

"_I bet you can't climb it," she said. He looked at the tree again, coolly. He was stronger than most people gave him credit for, although he knew Lily didn't underestimate him._

"_I bet I can," he retorted, and in seconds he'd found handholds in the rough bark and pulled himself up, clambering onto a wide, low-hanging branch. "Won't you join me, Lily? The view is incomparable," he murmured silkily, in a fair imitation of the Slytherin prefect, Lucius Malfoy._

_She burst out laughing and the sound was like music. He reached his hand down to her and she took it, letting him pull her up beside him. They sat there for a long time, gazing through the branches at the glittering lake that spread out beneath them..._

He could reach that lowest branch without climbing now, and he did so, wrapping his arms around it and hoisting himself up. He got to the next branch with a small, much-practiced jump, and from there he could see their secret place.

The trunk of the willow branched out and created a platform that was nearly flat, and more than large enough for two. They had discovered it in their third year, he remembered. It was tricky to get into, but once you were there, it was safe and comfortable and hidden. He began to crawl towards it, knowing the way there intimately, even in the darkness.

…_They were sitting on their branch, talking. Lily had a copy of __Moste Potente Potions__ in her hands and was poring over it, absolutely fascinated. From somewhere below, they heard James Potter and Sirius Black approaching. Lily looked up and her face twisted into dislike._

"_Let's go, Severus, I don't want them to see us." He clenched his hands into fists, and she must have seen the hurt expression on his face, because she reached out and placed her hand on his arm comfortingly. "Don't be a git, Sev, I only mean I don't want them to find out about this place and spoil it for us. You know we'd never be able to come back once they knew we like coming up here."_

_Reassured, he relaxed again and furrowed his brows, staring through the thick leaves and trying to see where they were. Judging from their voices, they were so close that if he and Lily simply jumped to the ground again, they would be seen. He looked up. There was a branch that he thought they could reach if they jumped, carefully._

"_I'm going to try something," he said with sudden determination, and he got to his feet, balancing carefully on their branch. He was almost tall enough to reach it, had it been directly overhead, but it wasn't, quite. He tensed the muscles of his lithe body, prepared to spring, and then jumped. For a moment, there was nothing but air beneath him, and he wondered if he was going to fall. Just what he needed, for Potter and Black to see him tumble ignominiously out of a tree._

_But then his arms were wrapping around the thick branch and he was hoisting himself up, and then he was standing on it and Lily was gazing at him with that look of admiration that made him want to puff out and crow. "Come on," he urged, glancing down again to see if Potter and Black had made it under the tree yet. She looked doubtful. "Trust me, Lil," he whispered, "I won't let you fall."_

_That was enough for her. She tossed him the book first and he caught it deftly and set it down. Then she jumped. He caught her as well, by the arms, and pulled her up. For a moment, his arms were wrapped tightly around her, as she got her balance back, and then he let her go. His heart was pounding, but he made himself ignore it and look around as nonchalantly as he could. He could see an opening in the tree where the branch met the trunk, and it intrigued him._

"_Come on," he said, and slipped through the crack. They were practically inside the tree, branches forming thick walls around them, although if he looked up, he could see the sky through the leaves. Lily had followed, and there was a look of pure delight in her face. Again, he felt that surge of pride. This was her favorite tree, and now he had found a secret place where he felt sure they would not be detected._

"_It's wonderful, Sev," she breathed, clasping her hands. Her green eyes were sparkling, and again, he wanted to touch her. Instead, he picked up __Moste Potente Potions__ and, sitting down, leaned against the rough, warm bark and flipped open to the page they had been studying._

"_So," he said, "Polyjuice potion." He looked around the platform appraisingly. "I bet we could brew it up here."…_

He was sitting in the same spot now. The leaves were thick and moonlight was barely penetrating. He considered sitting in the dark, but then thought better of it. "Lumos," he muttered, and the place they had come to think of as 'their room' suddenly filled with wandlight.

It cast strange shadows over things. They had figured out how to ward it so nobody else could enter, and had long ago begun leaving things up there to save the trouble of carrying them every time. A spare cauldron, a few stolen potions ingredients, bottles of butterbeer—bits and pieces of a life that, until now, he had always assumed would be full of Lily forever. He felt tears welling up again, and wondered how it was possible to feel such agony and not be killed by it...

_...Fifth year. Only a week into the year, and he was in their willow room alone. He'd flung himself to the ground, lying on his stomach with his potions book propped open in front of him, brow furrowed. He turned the page back and then forward again, studying the instructions, lying perfectly still. _

_Only when he heard a noise behind him did he move, and then only to glance over his shoulder. Lily was there, beaming at him._

"_I knew I'd find you here," she said, and he suddenly felt very warm. He smiled at her and turned back to the book. "What are you doing?" she continued, kneeling beside him and leaning over his shoulder to look. Her long hair brushed against his cheek and he shivered. He could smell her shampoo and amused himself by trying to identify each element in the scent. She made it herself, he knew, and it smelled strongly of almonds._

"_Studying," he answered her, his brow furrowed. "The Draught of Peace. I don't understand this." He pointed with one long finger at the instructions. She peered at the page and then sat down, pulling a piece of parchment and a quill from her bag._

"_It's like this," she said, and launched into an explanation of the theory. She's so beautiful, he thought, his mind wandering from the explanation. She was brilliant at potions, helping him through time and again, explaining the theory, the nature of the ingredients and why they worked together the way they did. Eventually she noticed that he wasn't listening._

"_What's wrong with you?" she said abruptly, gazing curiously at him. He blushed. He wasn't really embarrassed to be caught looking—he was relatively sure that she knew how he felt about her. But he was never quite sure if she reciprocated, and looking too openly would only remind her that he was vulnerable. She had kept her feelings secret and he had not been able to do so._

"_Nothing," he mumbled, "I was just a little distracted."_

_She put her parchment and quill down, looking at him very oddly. He thought he knew her so well, but he couldn't read the expression on her face at all. Fear seemed to gather into his stomach like a ball of ice. "By what?" she said slowly._

"_You," he whispered before he could stop himself. She looked like she had been turned to stone. Her face, always a little pale (like cream, he thought distractedly) was completely white. Her eyes still held that indecipherable expression. He tensed, preparing himself to flee._

"_Me?" she said, her voice very small. With a sudden surge of hope, he wondered if he had guessed wrong as to the source of her reaction._

"_Well… yes," he said, rather lamely._

"_What do you mean?" her eyes were huge and bright and he imagined getting lost in them, gazing into them so deeply that he could see nothing else. And still, that expression he didn't understand how to read._

"_You're--well don't be ridiculous, Lil, you know you're beautiful," he muttered, blushing again. He turned his head away, but he could hear the soft hiss of her breath as she sucked it in sharply._

"_I—I am?" she whispered, her voice even softer than his. He chanced another look. Her eyes were wide and heartbreakingly lovely. He wanted to kiss her, he realized. He wondered if she would let him. She wasn't running away, wasn't screaming, wasn't accusing him of destroying their friendship as his mind had told him so often that she would. She looked, in fact, incredibly happy. He sat up, looking straight at her, his black eyes locking with her green ones._

"_Lily Evans, don't be an idiot," he said smoothly, sounding far more calm than he felt. "You're the most beautiful girl at this school, and everyone knows it." She made a noise that, if he hadn't been feeling less caught up in the moment, he probably would have mocked as a squeak. "And," he continued meditatively, feeling very brave all of a sudden, "I think I'm going to kiss you."_

_And he had done it. Shyly? Yes. Awkwardly? Of course. But he had done it—had reached for her and drawn her close to him. And she had closed her beautiful eyes, and tilted her head back, and there had been nothing for him but her soft, white skin and her lips, and those were soft too, softer than he could ever have imagined. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful moment of his life…_

With a flick of his wand, he extinguished the light, and there was nothing to see but blackness, and nothing to hear but the sound of a boy, sobbing as though his heart would break, and sounding younger even than he was.

For a while after that, he kept trying. He passed notes in class, even borrowed school owls to send her letters. He scribbled apologies on bits of parchment in the tree, convinced that she still went up there sometimes, when she was sure he wouldn't be there. He found them crumpled up sometimes, or burnt into little piles of ashes. Never a reply. Eventually he gave up. There were only so many times he could apologize, so many times he could say he was sorry, that he didn't mean it, that it really had just slipped out. She refused to listen. He didn't really blame her.

He never said the word 'Mudblood' again.

He told no one about it, but everyone knew that Lily Evans and Severus Snape were no longer friends. It hadn't taken long for the story to get around—that the Snape boy had finally justified all of the Gryffindors' warnings to Lily and shown his true colors. He took refuge in silence, cultivating it like he might do with a particularly valuable potions ingredient. He threw himself into his studies, resolving that losing her help would not cause his grades to slip. If anything, he was determined to best her. He spent hours poring over every potions book in the library, memorizing lists of ingredients and their properties, preparing for the final OWL of the year.

At the practical examination, it paid off. The Ministry potions examiner was making his rounds through the room. He'd already stopped at Lily's cauldron and exclaimed in admiration, pointing out how closely she had approximated the proper shade of azure that the potion ought to have reached at that stage. Severus had barely heard it, working feverishly. He'd run a risk, improvised slightly, because based on his newfound understanding of the ingredients, he'd thought the recipe was missing something.

A shadow shimmered over the cauldron as the examiner gazed down at him. He didn't notice. The potion looked like liquid sky, and he was stirring it carefully with one hand and using the other to prod the flames with his wand, raising them a fraction. The Ministry wizard didn't move, didn't speak, for a long time. Finally, Severus glanced up at him. The examiner was looking at him oddly.

"My dear boy," he finally said, and he sounded a little breathless, "in all my years as an OWL examiner, I have never seen a student achieve results like this. Extraordinary. Truly extraordinary." Severus straightened a little, reaching up to push his hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. It was hanging lank and damp, the vapors from the potions making it feel heavy and a bit greasy.

"And to think," he continued, beaming, after he'd taken a glance at his student list, "a student from my old house. Naturally, of course, naturally. I shall recommend to Horace Slughorn that he award ten points to Slytherin for your excellent performance, dear boy. You are a credit to your house. Carry on, carry on. Splendid, splendid!"

As the examiner walked away, Severus threw a triumphant glance over to Lily. She wasn't looking at him, but he could tell she had heard. She was frowning, bending over her cauldron with exaggerated concentration. He smirked. He knew now that he didn't need her. Lucius was right. He needed nobody but himself, needed no power but his own. And he was indebted to the man who had shown him the way.

It was the longest summer of his life.

In spite of Petunia's disapproval, Lily had always invited him to the Evans' home nearly every day during the summers. She knew more than anybody else did about his home life, and with her typical gentleness, she had done everything in her power to help him escape from it, without ever saying openly that she was doing so. He had appreciated it deeply, but he didn't really understand how much until that summer.

In the end, it was not Lily, but Petunia who sought him out. She arrived in Spinner's End one day, looking sourer than ever, and knocking on his door. It was nearly the end of August, almost time for school to begin again.

"What?" he said sullenly, glaring at her with all the malice he could muster. "I hope you don't expect me to ask you in. We aren't used to entertaining such—_fine_ company here." His lip curled disdainfully as he looked at her.

Her eyes narrowed. Lily had long ago got used to his sarcastic comments and learned to ignore them, but he could always get a rise out of Petunia. "Shut up," she hissed. "Wild horses couldn't drag me into that hole you call a house." She appeared to hesitate, and then said, "Will you come out and talk to me for a minute?"

"Why?" he asked sharply. "Did Lily send you over here for something? Is she out there?" He opened the door a little wider, as though to look around.

Petunia gave him a penetrating look that he didn't like. "No, she's got no idea I'm here. She's out somewhere with James Potter, I think." His face darkened, and she smirked nastily. "He's been coming by quite a bit this summer."

Severus kept his mouth shut, but he did step out of the house and close the door quietly behind him. He didn't need his parents to hear what they were discussing. His mother had liked Lily quite a bit, and had already been asking enough questions. Her pity would be unbearable. His father would only use it as ammunition to torture him with. He scowled darkly, crossing his arms and glaring down at Petunia. He was in Wizarding robes, which he had taken to wearing at home, rather than ask for money to buy muggle clothes that fit. The posture and the robes had the desired effect on Petunia, and she seemed to shrink a little.

"You did have a fight, then? Mum and dad have been asking Lily all summer and she wouldn't say," Petunia said. Severus just kept looking at her, waiting. "Look, Severus, you know I don't like you, but I like that Potter boy less. He's a stupid ass and I don't like the way he hangs around my sister all the time. She was miserable and insufferable all July and then Potter started hanging about and she's just as insufferable now, only it's worse, because Potter's following her around with his tongue hanging out. I just want to know what happened. Lily won't tell me, I thought you might."

Severus scowled. If information about Lily and Potter was all she had to offer him, he wasn't going to give her anything worthwhile in return. "Why don't you ask your sister, then?" he hissed venomously. "I'm surprised you haven't heard all about it, if Potter's really been hanging about; I'm one of his favorite topics of conversation, you know." Petunia took a step backward, surprised by the force of his loathing. "You're good at trying to insinuate yourself into places where you don't belong, aren't you? I'm sure they discuss it when there's no _filth_ around to overhear," he hissed. "Surely you haven't forgotten how to listen at doors, Petunia." She stared at him in shock. He turned on his heel and went back into the house, slamming the door.

Sixth year was torture. Everybody knew what had happened, and the Slytherins took great joy in tormenting him about it. What he couldn't observe for himself, his housemates informed him of with malicious glee.

He crawled into the willow, after casting _Homenum Revelio_ to be sure she wasn't there. Bellatrix Lestrange's taunt was still ringing in his ears. "They say your Mudblood girlfriend's dating Potter now--didn't you hear, Severus? You ought to teach her a lesson, whoring herself about like that. Still, I suppose dirty behavior is all you can expect from a dirty Mudblood."

He'd stood there and listened in silence, gritting his teeth. He hated Bellatrix. He was relatively certain that he hated Lily more, as long as he didn't see her. When he did see her, though, he knew it wasn't true. Her hair was longer than ever, smooth and red-gold. It cascaded like a waterfall down her shoulders and swung alluringly when she walked. He wanted to tangle his hands in it, to stroke it, to curl his fingers around it like he had done so often during the first half of their fifth year. His fingers ached with the tactile memory. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Her eyes flashed with green fire every time she saw him. Even anger made her beautiful, turned her face regal. She reminded him of Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes.

By seventh year, it was simply assumed by everyone that Lily and James would be married. They were inseparable. Their last week at Hogwarts, after they'd completed their NEWTS, Dumbledore announced James and Lily's formal engagement to the students who filled the Great Hall. It seemed that everyone in the entire world except for Severus was applauding and cheering. He closed his eyes, forcing himself not to look, knowing what he would see if he chanced a glimpse at her face. For he knew all too well how lovely she was when she was happy, how radiant her face became when she was with a man she loved.

Or, at least, he'd thought he knew.

A few days later, he climbed into the willow for what was to be the last time. He sat down in his accustomed corner, hugging his knees to his chest. It was hot, and he'd pulled back the sleeves of his robes, revealing the Dark Mark that had been imprinted on his arm a year previously. Voldemort had taught him things he'd never dreamed of, dark magic that made him feel powerful even as he sometimes sickened at the fear that one day the Muggle he was torturing might turn her face to him and be revealed as Lily or Petunia.

He looked around, gazing at the room through the dark curtain of his hair. The cauldron still stood there, spotlessly clean. He practiced and experimented with potions in it regularly, when he was sure Lily wouldn't catch him. He was relatively certain she still visited sometimes, and was glad they'd made it impossible for others to discover their secret. He couldn't bear to think of Potter ever going up there.

And then, as if his thoughts had conjured her, she suddenly appeared before him. He simply stared at her, taken more off-guard than he cared to admit. She looked horribly guilty.

"Severus," she said. He wanted to get up, to push past her, to run away. But he was frozen. Long seconds were passing and threatening to turn into a horrible, unbearable silence.

"Evans," he sneered, at a loss for anything else to do or say.

"Don't," she snapped irritably. "I've come to talk to you, the least you can do is be moderately civil, Death Eater or not."

He glared, all of the anger he'd felt over the last two years suddenly surging up. He thought he might vomit. He jumped to his feet and shouted instead. "Civility? _You're_ going to talk to _me_ about civility, Lily Evans? Don't make me laugh." He didn't laugh, though. He dropped his voice instead, making it as poisonous as he possibly could. "You're a hypocrite and a whore, Evans, and you can't possibly have anything to say to me that I want to hear."

He wasn't looking at her. He couldn't. So it surprised him when he heard the choked sob that escaped her. She was white, and trembling, and when he finally met her eyes, for the first time in two years, his heart ached with longing so strong that it hurt him physically. She looked as though he'd just killed her cat and used it for a Quaffle.

"I just… wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Sev," she whispered. "I should have forgiven you. I shouldn't have…been the way I was." He stirred restlessly, but she pressed on. It sounded rehearsed and stilted. She was trying desperately not to cry. He was trying desperately not to look like he was hanging on her every word. "How could you have done it?" she continued, her voice small and hurt and fragile. "How could you call me—that? I thought you loved me. I thought you were different. I trusted you. And all along you were just like all the rest of them, after all."

He scowled. "If that's what you think, what are you apologizing to _me_ for?"

She looked at him for a long time, very sadly. "Because," she finally said, "I guess it turned out that I was just like all the rest of them, too."

He studied her face. She was right. He'd turned out to be a Slytherin, and she a Gryffindor, just as everyone had told them they would. He felt a deep resentment, suddenly, against all of the people who had spent the last seven years convincing them it was impossible. Damn the Founders and their Sorting Hat. Damn Slytherins and damn Gryffindors.

"I love you," he said, the words gasping out of him hoarsely before he realized what he was saying. "I love you so much, Lily, can't you—" He stopped. He couldn't beg. He was far too proud for that. She looked uncomfortable, as though she knew exactly what he'd been about to say.

"I can't, Sev. You-Know-Who isn't about to share you with me. And you know he won't let you leave. You'd die." She looked at him sadly. "It's too late for us. I've made… promises, to James. It's just that…I didn't want you to think too harshly of me, that's all." She'd taken a step closer to him, and then another one. He swallowed. She was so close that he could smell her. It was a warm, familiar scent. Before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her, his lips pressed to hers with a fire that neither of them had ever known before. His fingers dug into her shoulders and he was dimly afraid that it might hurt her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her arms were going around him, her lips sealing themselves to his. He clung to her as tightly as he could, breaking the kiss only when he was sure that lack of oxygen was about to make him pass out.

They didn't say anything. She was crying, and so was he. It was their final goodbye, and they both knew it, and they were both unwilling to say it. Instead, he swept his cloak off and spread it on the ground, and she stared at him for a moment. He watched her, dimly aware that he was panting for breath. He could see her weighing her choices in her mind, and then suddenly she made a decision and lay down.

His heart stopped. He was sure his heart had stopped. He was going to drop dead. He already had dropped dead, because surely that was the only explanation for how it could be possible that Lily, his Lily, was lying there, gazing up at him with that look in her eyes. He was sure that if he touched her, she would disappear, or explode into flame, like Fawkes.

But he couldn't stop himself. He was at her side in a moment, and she was loosening his tie, and covering his face in desperate kisses, and his black hair was hanging about them in heavy curtains, shutting out the rest of the world. All he could see was her beautiful, beautiful eyes, shining with desire. For him.

It was several hours before she left, kissing him goodbye with a finality that broke his heart. He had helped her back into her clothes, caressing every inch of her skin as he did, combing his fingers through her hair to remove the tangles that he had put there. It was some time longer before he left.

And after that day, Voldemort's legilimency didn't seem capable of penetrating him any longer. Some things were simply too private, too precious to be sullied. He never saw her alive again.

0 0 0

"Sev," Lily was saying. "Sev, wake up." He opened his eyes obediently, and there she was. Her eyes were warm and gentle, her lips quirked in the peculiar smile that he loved so much. "I need to talk to you, Severus. Wake up."

He felt her hand on his forehead, cool and comforting. "Lily," he breathed, and he realized that he was clothed in fresh, clean robes with no hint of blood on them. She was standing close to him, and he thought he had never seen her look so radiantly beautiful. "Am I dead? Where am I?"

"You're sleeping, darling," she answered, not taking her hand away from his face. "You need to wake soon, but Albus and James sent me to speak to you first." Somehow, looking into her lovely face, Severus was incapable of feeling malice when she mentioned James. James didn't matter. Not with Lily right in front of him.

"About what?" He felt no need to ask where she'd come from. She was dead. He knew. He must be hovering quite close to death himself, if she could slip into his dreams and memories so easily, and touch him there. And if she was with him, she must have something important to say. He watched her, waiting, feeling more peaceful than he had ever felt before.

"About us, Severus." Still he waited, feeling patient until she was willing to continue. She smiled at him. "So many years have passed, Sev. I know how hard it's been. I've been watching you. I'm so wonderfully proud of you." He stared at her. She had to be real, he reasoned to himself, because in his wildest dreams, it had never occurred to him that she would say such a beautiful thing.

"You," she said seriously, looking into his eyes, "have more than atoned for any wrong you ever did me, Severus. In the name of my husband, and of Albus Dumbledore, and of myself, I release you from debt. You are free, Sev."

He stared at her, dumbstruck. "Lily, I—" he started to say, but she placed a finger on his lips and stopped him.

"There's nothing else to say, Sev. I'm letting you go. I have to let you go. And now you need to go back, darling. And please, listen to me very carefully." Her eyes were searching his, piercing through him and reading everything in his mind and heart with clarity beyond anything he had ever seen. He felt utterly exposed and utterly protected at the same time. "It has been eighteen years, Severus. I give you back your freedom. You've been chained to me for long enough. Albus... he let you bind yourself to a dead woman in order to secure protection for Harry. But Harry doesn't need it anymore, and Albus is gone. You are bound no longer. I'm the past, Sev. You have a future. A love is waiting for you that is greater than we ever knew. Let me go."

He felt tears begin to fill his eyes, but there, in that place, he was incapable of doubting her. Her lip was quivering and her eyes, too, were filling with tears. "I love you," he whispered brokenly, pulling her into his arms and burying his nose in her sweet-smelling hair. She did not pull away, for which he thanked every god he could think of. "Lil…will I...ever see you again?"

She looked up at him and smiled gently. "Of course, Severus. To the well-organized mind, death is not an ending, but a new beginning. We will meet again. I promise you." She looked around, and a teasing note crept into her voice. "And your mind certainly is quite well organized. I would never have expected you to be capable of it." He found himself chuckling with her at the memory of himself that she projected: the ragtag, disorganized schoolboy he'd been. Finally, she pulled out of his arms and regarded him thoughtfully. "Severus, I belong to James. I bound myself to him, and you won't find me without him when you come to join us. But I promise you, you won't be alone."

Before he could come up with an answer, she was gone, and darkness encompassed him again.

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Author's Notes: I think this explains both how Snape could have loved someone as intensely as he loved Lily, and then turned around and become such a complete misanthrope. I also really liked the idea that she taught him potions at first--it just makes it even more galling to him that Harry's not very good. And it explains where he found the motivation to become a master--either to show Lily up, or to justify the work she put in to helping him. 

Stay tuned--now that Snape's past has been put to rest, he might be able to fall in love with someone else. Perhaps a certain bushy-haired person? Any and all comments are greatly appreciated!

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	3. The Hospital Wing

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 3: The Hospital Wing**

Two weeks had passed. Harry had carried Snape's body to the hospital wing and laid it in an empty bed beside a window overlooking the lake. Then he had crossed the Professor's hands over his breast and drawn the curtain around the bed. Most days, nobody sat beside him. Most nights, a young witch slipped through the double doors and drew a chair behind the curtain. A few times she came in the afternoon as well. Once she sat down, she never moved or made a sound. Sometimes she dozed off. Usually she didn't. Her eyes were always fixed on his face.

Sometimes his eyelids would flicker, and he would mutter a name beneath his breath. He never woke for longer than a second or two. Other than his face, he never shifted from the position in which Harry had placed him.

Outside, the grounds of Hogwarts resembled the campgrounds at the Quidditch World Cup. Almost all of the witches and wizards who had participated in the battle had refused to leave. All day, families worked to rebuild the castle. All night, they crammed themselves into tents, or into beds in the parts of the dormitories that were deemed safe to occupy, or else they lay in sleeping bags wherever there was an empty spot to be found.

At mealtimes, house elves scurried about, carrying food to people where they worked. Most of them stopped and sat down. A few—Percy Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Draco Malfoy among them—simply requested sandwiches and ate as they worked. Aurors flitted in and out, searching the Forbidden Forest and the outskirts of Hogsmeade for injured Death Eaters who might not have made good their escape.

In the evenings, as twilight fell, there were funerals. Everyone attended. There was funeral after funeral, memorial after memorial. Padma Patil was dead. Three Hufflepuffs had fallen, barely of age. One of them had been a beater for the house quidditch team. He was buried beside the quidditch pitch, along with Cormac McLaggen and Oliver Wood.

Day by day, with remarkable speed, the castle began to resemble what it had been before Voldemort decimated it. With so many people working and putting in such effort, it could hardly do otherwise. Slowly, the hospital wing thinned out. Those with superficial wounds were sent home (though most insisted on simply moving into tents with their families or friends), and those with incurable or very long-term curse damage were sent on to St. Mungo's once they were stabilized.

And so it was that when Severus Snape opened his eyes, two weeks after he had last closed them, he wondered at first whether all of the horrible recollections that rushed back to him could really be true. By the quality of the light, it seemed to be late afternoon. A warm, golden glow suffused the room and in the beams that fell through the windows, he could see dust motes lazily floating toward the floor. The curtain around his bed was half-drawn, and beyond it he could see a tidy row of spotless white beds. He could hear the comforting noise of footsteps on the flagstones, and recognized the tread as Poppy Pomfrey's.

With Death Eaters meting out detention over the past year, the hospital wing had not been this empty since Dumbledore's death. Severus found himself wondering if the whole year had been a dream, some horrible torture inflicted on him by a curse or a potion. He smelled almonds, and the scent brought back in a flood all of the long-buried memories through which his mind had been wandering as he slept. He wondered if he could turn his head, to see where the smell came from. Maybe the dream had covered even more time than he'd supposed.

He decided to try. With great effort, he forced his head to turn to the right. It sent a sharp, shooting pain through his neck, and he nearly blacked out. Struggling to recover from the sudden agony, he found it took a few moments for his brain to analyze the things his eyes were seeing.

On the table beside his bed, there was a vase full of apple branches, on which the blossoms were thick and sweet. An album of photos sat beside it. Severus let his eyes wander, hunting for the source of the scent. When they encountered it, he stopped and held his breath.

A shaft of light from the windowpane behind his bed fell onto the back of a woman's head. Her hair was very smooth, and gathered into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. With the red-gold light of the late afternoon falling on it, her hair shone like burnished copper. He couldn't see the face, but the skin was milky-white, dotted here and there with freckles. She sat in an armchair upholstered in Gryffindor colors, curled in on herself. She had hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin there, a pose he recognized immediately; Lily sat like that all the time. As far as he could tell, she was asleep. He didn't want to wake her, but somehow he couldn't stop himself. Mustering all of his strength, he managed to lift his arm.

It felt impossibly heavy, but when he looked at it, it seemed thinner than he remembered. _You've become weak, not inexplicably fat_, he thought to himself wryly. Inch by inch, he moved his arm towards the sleeping woman. He could see her breathing, slowly and evenly. When his fingers were mere millimeters from her skin, he drew a deep, shuddering breath.

And he touched her, just at the junction of her neck and shoulder.

His first impression was of an intense sense of her reality. She was solid and warm, and he could feel the flutter of her heartbeat under his fingertips. Her skin was impossibly soft. "…Lily?" he croaked. His throat hurt horribly and for the first time, he became aware that he was terribly, terribly thirsty.

She stirred and he heard her breathing change as she woke up. The pain in his neck was bringing him back to himself with more clarity now. Lily was dead. It couldn't possibly be Lily. And when she turned around, he knew he was right.

Where he had hoped desperately to see Lily, he saw instead the face of Hermione Granger. She looked years older than she had the last time he saw her (how long ago had it been? Days? Weeks?) Her eyes had horrible, bruised-looking rings beneath them. He immediately regretted waking her. She had the appearance of someone who has gone without sleep for far longer than is good for them.

And the last of his memories came back. His final, choking moments. His blood frothing up in his throat as he had struggled to communicate everything to Harry in time. The battle. Voldemort. His mind started racing. Judging by the state of the hospital wing, and the presence of Granger at his side, they must have won. Quite some time must have gone by. Certainly more than a few days had, at least. And, if he was not in Azkaban, then surely Harry must have lived at least long enough to inform them of his loyalties.

"No, sir," she said, her voice quiet and sad. "Not Lily. Only Hermione Granger." She sounded regretful, and he wondered if she knew. _Of course she knows_, he thought. _Potter is her best friend. They've been running about together in the woods for months. Naturally he would tell her_. He felt as though he ought to be embarrassed, but he was far too tired. He finally realized that his hand was still resting in the crook of her neck, and he let it drop heavily to the bed. He could think of nothing to say, and so he remained silent, although he watched her steadily.

She returned his gaze evenly, almost curiously. She had changed immensely, he realized, in the year since he'd last had time to scrutinize her appearance. Any vestige of baby fat had long since disappeared from her body as she'd wandered the country, not knowing where her next meal might come from. Her face was that of a woman, not a schoolgirl, and full of a type of knowledge that she could never have learned at school. But he could see something else different about her. Throughout her years as his student, she had always possessed self-confidence, or at least pretended to it. He knew she was driven to prove herself, to prove her right to be a part of the world into which she had been invited as a young girl. Now, however, there seemed to be uncertainty written into every line of her body. Her hands shook slightly where they rested. He doubted anybody else had even noticed. It was only to be expected, he supposed. A seventeen-year-old girl, facing what she and Harry Potter had faced, would surely make some grave mistakes. They would, he knew, be weighing heavily on her now.

He swallowed a few times, attempting to get his throat into better working order. "I believe it is safe to assume," he finally said, when he'd completed his study of her, "that the Dark Lord has been defeated." She laughed, and for a moment looking at her face no longer made him think only of sadness and tragedy.

"Only you, Headmaster, could manage to sound bored while asking a question like that."

"Am I still headmaster?" he lifted an eyebrow. "I rather assumed I'd have been sacked by this point."

"The remaining members of the board of governors have elected to give you another chance to run the school, although you will need to refrain from hiring Death Eaters as teachers this time."

He closed his eyes. He knew Dumbledore had intended the job for him eventually. Minerva didn't really enjoy the position, and she was getting on. She'd want to retire soon. Severus was still young, in theory, although he felt as old as Nicholas Flamel at the moment. It had been a bitter pill to swallow when he had been forced to sully the position with his pretended allegiance to Voldemort.

"Are you in pain, sir?" she asked him, and he opened his eyes again. It was surprisingly hard work.

He ignored the question. "Would it trouble you too much, Miss Granger, to fetch me a glass of water?" She jumped up to get it for him, and by the time she had returned, he was asleep again.


	4. Pity on Us Poor Sinners

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 4: Pity on Us Poor Sinners**

He was asleep again. Hermione set Professor Snape's untouched glass of water down on his bedside table and reclaimed her seat beside him. She studied his face uncomfortably. It was not the first time in the last two weeks that his eyes had flickered open, or that he'd mistaken her for Lily Potter. It was, however, the first time he had touched her, and the first time he'd maintained consciousness for more than a second or two. She strained her memory, thinking back over the last seven years. She thought it was possible that it might have been the first time he'd ever touched her at all.

She supposed that she was probably going to have to pay for that, later, if he remembered what he'd done. She sighed and let her head fall back against the chair. She was bone-weary, more exhausted than she could ever remember being before. She felt old. Madame Pomfrey had examined her at length and determined that she wasn't under any sort of recognized curse, although it was possible that she'd been hit with something unknown.

"Chances are that something grazed you just enough to bring you low for a week or two. Combine that with the strain of the last few months, and it's no wonder you're in the state you're in, child," she had clucked, bustling about like a mother hen. Even her large, white smock and the frilly cap she wore on her head seemed to perpetuate that image, somehow. Hermione had merely sat there, unmoving. She rarely moved at all lately, if she wasn't working; it required energy she simply didn't possess anymore. Pomfrey had dosed her with Pepper-Up and offered to let her have a few vials of Dreamless Sleep if she felt she wasn't getting enough rest. She'd refused, although she knew she probably needed it.

Potions brought her thoughts back to Professor Snape, and she resumed her study of him. A horrible, crimson scar stood out on his neck, the remnants of a row of sharp teeth and two huge fangs that had embedded themselves in his skin. Either because he was still ill, or merely because the red of the scar merely provided contrast, he looked as white as Nearly Headless Nick, and when the light hit him, he seemed almost as translucent. It seemed to Hermione that he was barely tethered to the world of the living, even after two weeks.

She wasn't sure why she sat with him so often. The hospital wing was the quietest area of the castle, the only place free of the constant chatter, crying, and shouting that were the inevitable byproducts of hundreds of wizards running about and rebuilding a castle after a battle full of casualties. Madame Pomfrey had worked hard to restore it to its original appearance and ensure that it was, once more, a quiet sanctuary.

Since most of the other patients were gone and few others came to visit the Professor (she wasn't sure how many people even knew he was there), it was a convenient place to be alone, and sitting with Professor Snape was the only excuse she could find to linger there. Besides, ever since Harry had described the memories he'd seen in the pensieve, she'd been drawn to Professor Snape in a way she never had before. It changed so many of the assumptions she'd had about him.

She had always been his defender amongst her classmates; always the one to insist on calling him by his title, on not automatically assuming that he was the guilty party when dark deeds were being done. And then he'd killed Dumbledore, and she'd felt like such a little fool. She had been so confident that he was on their side, that the Headmaster wouldn't trust a former Death Eater with Harry's life unless he was _sure_. In the past, even when the evidence suggested otherwise, she had chosen to believe Dumbledore, much to Harry and Ron's irritation.

In the end, it was her habitual trust in Dumbledore that had led her to decide that Professor Snape must have been acting on orders. In spite of the horror stories coming from Hogwarts, in spite of everything, she couldn't quite bring herself to believe that Dumbledore had been so horribly wrong. In a way, she supposed, she had been clinging to something, no matter how irrational, because she couldn't face the alternative. It was like Ron insisting that Moody could have survived the fall from his broom, when everyone knew it was impossible.

It had been different too, though, than Ron. She had at least a little logic on her side. Harry's story didn't make sense to her. With everything Dumbledore had ever said to them about death, she couldn't believe that at the last moment, he would turn to Severus Snape and plead for his life. No—having protected Harry by petrifying him and throwing the cloak over him, Dumbledore would have died with as much dignity as he had lived. He should have been cracking jokes, not begging for his life. It was too uncharacteristic, she decided. The only conclusion she could reach was that he'd been begging for something else.

She hadn't told Harry or Ron of her thoughts. She knew it would be pointless. If her logic was sound, the truth would out eventually. Just as she was convinced that Dumbledore wouldn't beg Professor Snape for his own life, she was convinced that he wouldn't order Snape to kill him without leaving a way to clear his name. So she waited. Occasionally she dropped hints, such as allowing Phineas Nigellus to hear that they were in the Forest of Dean. When Harry had returned to the tent with Ron and the sword, she'd taken that as confirmation that Phineas was carrying information to the new Headmaster and that Snape, in turn, was helping them.

She hadn't been able to see when Nagini bit him, but Harry had whispered something, and the screams had conveyed the rest. At that moment, she was sure he would die. She'd wanted to cry. It was the crowning unfairness. That, she thought, was the worst thing about Voldemort. It was not the cruelty, or the murder, or the torture, but the sheer undeserved nature of it that galled her. Whatever the man was, he didn't deserve to be struck down by a giant snake and left to bleed to death in a shack built for the convenience of a werewolf who'd nearly killed him at least twice before. He was supposed to be a Master of Potions, a Slytherin, and a spy. She was angry with him for not predicting that this would happen, for not saving himself. She couldn't explain why, except that she was tired of losing people. She realized she'd wanted him to be cleared while he was still alive. She'd wanted him to have at least one day in which he could walk amongst his fellow wizards and not be reviled.

And so when she'd seen the flask that lay in his robes, she had been happy. She'd snatched it up while Harry was distracted, and sniffed it, muttering a quick charm to amplify her senses. She could identify most of the ingredients from the scent and appearance of the potion (she'd kept up with her studies as best she could while on the run). It wasn't a poison, she could tell, and so she could only hope it was a healing draught she didn't recognize. She didn't know if it would work, but at least the man hadn't been a complete fool. And then he'd given Harry the memories.

As he fell asleep, he'd moved back into almost the same position he'd been in for the last two weeks. If not for the almost imperceptible rising and falling of his chest and the faint movement of the vein in his neck, she would have assumed he was a corpse. He had spent half a month dreaming of Harry's mother, calling out her name sometimes. In all of the hours she had spent arguing with herself over his probable innocence during her night watches, it had never occurred to her that Lily Evans Potter might be the reason for his betrayal of Voldemort.

It made sense in retrospect. She could remember countless slurs against Harry's father, but never once had the Professor allowed Lily Potter's name to cross his lips in their presence. Every negative thing he'd had to say about Harry was somehow connected to James, and never to Lily. That alone should have tipped her off. And when Slughorn had spoken of Lily Evans as his star Potions pupil… why had she not seen it then? She assumed double classes with Gryffindor and Slytherin were a longstanding tradition. Naturally, Severus Snape would have known Lily Evans, as they shared something in common with her that was deeply meaningful to him. They probably even studied together, she realized with sudden surprise. They had been friends since before their first trip to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Hermione thought of all the times she'd badgered Ron and Harry to finish their homework, and she suddenly wondered if Lily Evans had badgered Snape the same way, so many years ago. Somehow it didn't occur to her that Snape would have been the one badgering Lily. Snape wasn't the badgering type.

Of course, she couldn't have predicted their childhood friendship, but it didn't surprise her to learn of it, either. She had never thought of him being in love before. It had always seemed rather horrible to contemplate. Now, though, she realized that it explained everything about him.

For the last seven years, she had thought of him with respect for his intellect and awe for the risks he had run on behalf of Harry and the Order. As she looked at him now, and saw the sweat beading on his brow, she thought back to the first time she'd seen him begin to wake. It was a week after the battle, and his eyes had suddenly opened wide, flashing with pain. And then they'd rolled back into his head, and he'd whispered "Please, Lil…" and drifted into silence again. His dreams seemed to be tormenting him. Lately, she had spent much less time thinking of his mind and his courage, and far more thinking of his heart.

She _accio_'d a damp washcloth from Madame Pomfrey's worktable, and folded it into a long rectangle, draping it carefully across his hot forehead. He didn't respond. She wondered fleetingly if the potion he'd taken was supposed to have this effect, if he'd planned to be unconscious for so long as his body slowly knit itself back together, fighting the venom that still crawled through his veins.

Sadness began to steal over her as she watched him. His entire life, she realized, had been a tragedy. Born to a father who didn't want him and a mother who couldn't protect him, raised with one foot in the Wizarding world and the other in the muggle world, and never embraced by either. She remembered being told that he'd come to school already equipped with a disturbing knowledge of the Dark Arts, and she wondered how he'd come by it. She wondered why, with only Snape to influence her before she arrived at Hogwarts, Lily hadn't been similarly educated. She wanted to ask him, but she couldn't imagine ever being in a position to do so. She was already shocked that he hadn't thrown her from the room the moment he waked to see her at his side.

It was inevitable, she realized, that he would become a Death Eater. He'd known long before arriving at Hogwarts that he'd be in Slytherin, and it proved to be exactly what he had dreamed of: a home. He'd been accepted and brought into the fold. What did it matter to him, a poor, love-starved half-blood, if the ones offering him comfort and shelter were horrible people? Everybody else despised him. He'd never been given a reason to ally himself with anyone else, except for Lily, and she had turned her back on him as well.

Hermione frowned. She'd been called a mudblood before, and it had stung horribly. She wondered what she would do if Harry or Ron ever dared... but she couldn't imagine simply walking away.

Gently, she wiped his face, and then set the washcloth down on the table, beside the photo album. His life was a tragedy. She'd been angry with him when she thought he wasn't going to fight, but now that she knew more of the story, she wondered why he had bothered. She doubted that he expected to find happiness when he awoke.

"I'll be back, Professor," she said softly, and then she left. He gave no sign that he'd heard.


	5. Shame of My Flesh

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 5: Shame of My Flesh**

"D'you reckon he'll stay on as Headmaster, then?" Harry was saying, the words distorted through an obscenely large mouthful of treacle tart. Kreacher stood nearby, holding a platter of said tart and beaming at Harry with the sort of sickly expression that he'd previously reserved for the moments before he began to snog Sirius' dad's trousers.

Ron shrugged. "Why wouldn't he? Just because he turned out to have been in love with your mum doesn't mean he's suddenly stopped being a power-hungry git. They've already said he's got the position. He never really gave it up anyway. Moot point, really."

Harry looked doubtful. Ron tore into a bite of pastrami sandwich with unholy relish, and Hermione smiled wanly at them. Some things never changed, apparently. She looked down at her own plate, picking through the remnants of her salad with her fork. She didn't have an appetite, but she hated to insult Kreacher by not eating his food. Not when he was watching them with such abject devotion. It seemed indecent, somehow. She forced herself to eat a tomato and he positively glowed. It didn't make her feel any better.

They were sitting at the foot of the willow tree by the lake. Harry had been wandering along the shore, gazing out into the water and watching as the Giant Squid occasionally reached a tentacle into the air and slapped it down, sending little waves rocking towards them. Most of the rebuilding was finished, but people weren't leaving. A Wizarding shantytown seemed to have established itself by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and nobody with the authority to make them go seemed willing to do it. Ron and Hermione had found him standing almost beneath the tree, looking at it with an odd expression on his face.

"He called my mum a mudblood," he'd said without preamble as soon as they were within earshot. Neither of them had to ask who he meant.

"Try not to judge. You don't know why," Hermione had answered, trying to be gentle. He didn't sound angry—more bewildered.

"It was his worst memory." A statement of fact. Nobody denied it. "He kicked me out of Occlumency lessons when I saw it. I thought it was because he was ashamed of being bullied by my dad."

Hermione just looked at him. Ron shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Harry stared at the tree for a few moments longer. "Only that wasn't it at all, was it? He wasn't ashamed of that at all. He was ashamed of calling my mum a—that word."

"Here?" Hermione had finally asked, long after Harry had lapsed back into silence. She hadn't seen the memory, only heard of it secondhand. Harry nodded in answer to her question, and turned away from the tree, sitting down in the cool grass. Hermione and Ron had sat down beside him, saying nothing. Long silences were quickly becoming commonplace between them. None of them seemed to have enough facility with words to say the things that needed saying. Nobody spoke again until Kreacher apparated in front of them with a loud crack and a huge platter full of food.

"Master has not eaten since early this morning," he wheezed, clearly laboring under the weight of the huge tray as he balanced it over his head. "Master must not starve himself." Harry had obligingly set to, and Kreacher had insisted on waiting on them hand and foot, serving each of them deferentially. Hermione had said nothing of it, only smiling when she caught Harry's eye, the smug smile of someone who knew she was right and was magnanimously choosing not to rub it in. Much.

When the food had begun to cease holding her interest, Hermione had decided it was high time that someone say something. Ron and Harry hadn't got over the trauma of being nearly starved for so many months and they both ate with a gusto that she found rather nauseating to listen to. "He woke up," she'd said, aware that she was dropping a bit of a bombshell.

"Really?" Harry's head had snapped up, his face lighting up with interest.

"Not for long."

"Did he say anything?"

"Not much." She looked down at her plate, sighing and nibbling at a rather limp leaf of lettuce. "He thought I was your mum at first."

They both looked at her oddly. She felt her cheeks going hot and wished she hadn't said anything. But neither of them pushed it, and she refused to elaborate. Eventually, Harry had posed his question about Snape returning as headmaster, and Ron had jumped on that as a much safer topic than Snape's love life. If they had to talk about Snape, he clearly preferred that it involve as little romance as possible.

Hermione ate another tomato and then grimaced. Her stomach was threatening to rebel if she forced down any more food. She waited until Kreacher was looking the other way and surreptitiously cast _Evanesco_ on her plate, vanishing the remaining food and returning the plate to the now-empty tray with what she hoped was a look of satisfaction. Kreacher beamed at her. He was an excellent cook, but she just hadn't gotten used to having food readily available again yet. With a sigh, she stretched out on the grass, resting her head on her hands.

Harry was frowning at his treacle tart. "Hermione… do you think if I went to talk to Snape, he'd…" she lifted one eyebrow. He trailed off, apparently grasping for words to express exactly what he wanted. "Do you think he'd talk to me? About my mum, I mean?"

Ron made a face, but didn't say anything. That gesture alone was enough to illustrate how much he'd changed in the last year. Hermione was rather impressed. Ron displayed a previously unsuspected level of subtlety in realizing that if Professor Snape had held his silence on the matter for this long, he wasn't likely to want to jump up and become Harry's best friend now.

"I don't think so, Harry," she sighed. "He must've had a reason for wanting to avoid you all these years."

"Yeah, but he was in love with her, Hermione. He's got to remember loads more than what he showed me. I just want to know. About her. She was my mother, you can't blame me for wanting to know. And they knew each other their whole lives. It isn't fair. He even knew my aunt Petunia—" he stopped short. "Fuck me. Aunt Petunia knows _Snape_."

"Language, Potter," drawled a voice behind them. Harry looked startled, even though the voice was very clearly not that of the Potions Master. Ginny's tinkling laugh rang out and she threw herself onto the grass beside them. Harry looked at her with rather the same expression he'd had as he ogled the plate of food Kreacher had prepared for him. Ron politely looked away. Hermione and Ginny just laughed. It felt good to laugh. Hermione was dimly aware that she was forcing herself to do it, for that very reason.

"I've been thinking, Harry," Ginny said, reaching for a piece of treacle tart. "Why do you think Snape never said anything to you about your mother?"

"That's obvious, isn't it?" Ron interjected. "He hated Harry's dad at least as much as he loved Harry's mum. I mean, just think, if things had turned out differently, Snape would've been your father, Harry."

As what he'd just said began to sink in, Ron looked dumbstruck by his own statement. Ginny stared at him in surprise. Hermione blinked. She hadn't thought of it either, truthfully. Apparently Snape's hard work to distance himself from Harry had been successful enough that even the so-called brightest witch of her age hadn't remembered the possibility of something so basic.

"Bollocks," said Harry promptly.

"Harry," Ginny whispered, turning to stare at him with a look somewhere between horror and awe. "What if he _is_ your father?"

"What?!"

"I'm serious, Harry, think about it. Your mum and Snape… he was in love with her ever since they were kids, isn't that what you said? It's not impossible that she loved him back. It's not even that unlikely."

"She was _married_. To my _dad_." Harry looked murderous.

"People have affairs sometimes, Harry," Ginny said, eyeing him cautiously. Hermione thought she saw the redhead surreptitiously move an inch or two away from him, as though she were afraid he might explode.

"That's absolutely… it's completely…" Harry sputtered, grasping for words, "preposterous!" he finished, at the same time as Ron said "brilliant!" Harry stared at Ron, and then at Ginny. "You're mental," he muttered. "Weasleys."

"No," Ron insisted, "it makes sense. Snape loved your mother. She loved Snape. But they fought, right?" Harry nodded unwillingly, suddenly becoming very interested in the ground. He was picking blades of grass and tearing them apart between his fingertips. "So your dad catches her on the rebound and they get married, but she's still in love with Snape. Trouble is, she's stuck, isn't she? I mean, wizards don't get divorced."

"They don't?" Harry interrupted.

"Wizard weddings are magically binding, Harry. It's like an Unbreakable Vow. Everyone knows that," Hermione said. She found it exasperating that Harry could spend seven years living in Magical society and still be so ignorant of its conventions.

"I didn't."

"Fine, fine, you know now," Ron said. "To continue on, then. Your mother sleeps with Snape, but she doesn't want to tell your father, of course. So she doesn't, even when she falls pregnant. And then You-Know-Who kills them and nobody knows the truth but the greasy git."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "A bit far-fetched, don't you think? If Snape was Harry's dad, why wouldn't he say anything about it?"

Ginny was looking at Harry thoughtfully. "I can think of a few reasons. Can't you?" Harry kept his gaze fixed on the blade of grass he was mutilating, his mouth firmly shut. She sighed, suddenly looking and sounding very much like a younger Hermione explaining a particularly simple bit of homework.

"First off, it wouldn't be very smart to admit to being the father of the boy who lived, not when most of your friends are Death Eaters. Second, if he did have an affair with your mum--calm down, Harry, I'm not saying it happened--but if it did, it's obvious nobody else knew about it. If he loved her as much as you say he did, he wouldn't want to ruin her reputation by putting it about that she'd cheated on her husband with a known Death Eater. Not to mention that those very same Death Eaters, to say nothing of Voldemort, would expect him to hate you, not to embrace you as a son. Then there's the fact that even if he hated your dad, Wizarding society is pretty strict about things like that, and he might have felt quite ashamed of _himself_ afterwards. And," she finished, with a note of triumph in her voice, "he might not even have been sure you were his son. I doubt he'd go rushing to make any sort of dramatic revelation to you without being sure himself, would he?"

Harry finally looked up. He and Ron were both staring at her in stunned silence. Hermione kept her mouth shut. She felt instinctively that it wasn't true, but Ginny certainly presented a good argument. "Blimey," Ron muttered, "You've thought that one through a bit, haven't you?"

"You started it," she snapped.

"Yeah, but I didn't go all… deep like that."

"Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon, Ron," Hermione sniffed. It broke the tension, at least for a few seconds. Harry laughed. It was weak, but it was better than nothing. Ron lifted his hands defensively, but he was smiling too.

"I—everyone says I look like my dad, though, not my mum." Harry looked to Hermione this time. She sighed. She knew he didn't have the talent for logic that she had. Apparently, he'd figured that much out as well, and was looking to her to decide whether the details could fit. She decided to level with him.

"I think it's farfetched, Harry, but none of them have seen your mum and dad in seventeen years, have they? Maybe they're just seeing what they want to see."

"They've seen photos. I've seen photos. And I saw them. In the mirror. I saw them. And they both came out of the Resurrection stone. And the night that Cedric—well, they came out of Voldemort's wand. And when I cast the Patronus." His voice was pleading. Hermione winced.

"Harry," Ron said carefully, "Are you sure any of that means what you want it to?"

"What do you mean?" He sounded defensive—scared, even.

"Well. Dumbledore himself told you the mirror doesn't show the truth. It shows what you want to be true. You had no way to imagine Snape might be your father, so of course you'd see, er, James. And you'd call him out of the stone, too. And priori incantatem doesn't mean anything about him being your dad. Only about him dying at the same time as your mum. And you saw yourself casting the Patronus, across a lake, in the dark, through a cloud of Dementors. What's so similar about you and your dad? Messy black hair? Tall and skinny? Good at quidditch? Snape's got all those too."

"Glasses," said Harry, feebly.

"Just because Snape doesn't wear them doesn't mean poor eyesight can't run in his family."

Harry looked like he might be sick. "So all of it might have meant—"

"Nothing." Ginny said gently, "or everything, Harry. We don't know. After all, it's just a theory, isn't it?

"I'm sorry, mate," Ron said suddenly. Harry was looking decidedly ill. "We shouldn't have kept it going. I don't blame you, being upset. If you said that kind of stuff about my mum, I'd deck you. Well," he chuckled, "if Ginny didn't get to you first."

Harry smiled wryly. "Thanks, Ron." Ginny scooted back over beside him and slipped her arm around his waist. He didn't seem to notice at first, but she tugged him closer, and he laid his head down on her shoulder. Hermione had spent the last two weeks feeling like she'd aged fifty years in a day. Harry, by contrast, looked like he'd gotten younger, not older. He looked lost. "I just wish there was a way to actually know. For sure," he muttered, staring at Ginny's hand where it had moved to rest over his.

Hermione sat up so quickly that she startled Ron, who jumped. "But there is, Harry!" she gasped, her eyes gleaming for a moment like the old Hermione when she'd just had a stroke of inspiration. "There's a potion!"

"Really?" said Ginny, with interest. "I'd never heard of one."

"It's really rare, I read about it years back, I don't even remember which book it was in. They're not common precisely _because_ Wizard marriages are so binding. Older ceremonies had safeguards built in against infidelity and newer ones—well, let's just say that given the amount of trouble the pureblood families have with even staying alive, as long as you're producing an heir with a good name, most people won't look too closely. If I can just remember where I read it, I'm sure we could find out!"

Harry frowned. "You think my parents wouldn't have put something about fidelity in their vows?"

"Well I don't know, do I? I wasn't there. You could ask someone, I guess, although who—well. There aren't many people to ask anymore. Maybe Hagrid was there?" She was talking fast now, caught up in her idea. She doubted strongly that Professor Snape was Harry's father, but she wanted to prove it one way or another. It presented an intellectual challenge, something that she hadn't realized she'd been missing until that moment. "But if they used a standard handfasting ceremony, Harry—the modern ones are written with loopholes. And a wizard who could do really powerful dark magic could probably circumvent the vows anyway."

"Snape's not actually an evil bat after all though, remember?"

"Not now." Hermione said softly. "But he was once."

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**Author's Notes**: Apparently I've been possessed by the ghost of George Lucas.

Will Hermione remember where she read about the potion? Will Snape notice if they start stealing from his potions stores again? Could Harry really have a Darth Vader/Luke Skywalker experience awaiting him? Find out next time, in the exciting conclusion to SHAME OF MY FLESH!

Wow. I've got to stop and take a walk or something before my brain explodes now.


	6. Breakfast at Poppy's

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 6: Breakfast at Poppy's  
**

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The next time Severus awoke, Hermione Granger wasn't there. The hospital wing was dark, except for a dim yellow light from beneath the door of Poppy Pomfrey's office. He lay still, listening for any sounds that might indicate what time it was. The castle seemed to be completely silent, which, he decided, meant that it was past four and before five. _Closer to four than five_, he decided, judging by the darkness outside the windows. It was his favorite time of the morning, late enough that even the most miscreant students were abed, and early enough that none of the professors, save himself, were awake. 

He lay still for a few moments, remembering the agony of the last time he'd attempted to look about and not anxious for a repeat performance. Careful not to move his head, he flexed his hands experimentally. They seemed to respond as they ought to. They were crossed over his chest, which he felt was rather macabre. He wondered whether it was Poppy or Miss Granger who was responsible for that one. Slowly, he lifted one hand to his neck, touching his fingertips to the spot where Nagini had bitten him.

The last memory he had of touching his neck had involved deep puncture wounds and hot, gushing blood. He preferred his neck this way. It felt quite smooth again, although he could feel the tiny dimples on his skin that would surely turn out to be visible scars when he had a chance to look at them in a mirror. It appeared that the Dark Lord had given him yet another reason to feel satisfied with his habitual choice of garment: the high collar of his frock coat would cover most of the scar. He felt no desire to be ogled constantly because of a wound he barely remembered receiving. He had been a teacher long enough to have no doubts that his students would do that very thing to an insufferable degree if he left the scar uncovered.

Perhaps cravats would come back into fashion.

He was still thirsty. Naturally, he would go waking up in the dead of night when nobody would be awake to help him. He doubted that he was strong enough to get up and fetch himself a drink without collapsing somewhere along the way. Perhaps if he could just locate his wand and summon empty glass. Even that, he realized, was going to mean sitting up at the very least.

Gingerly, he began to turn his head, testing his range of motion millimeter by millimeter, anxious not to hurt himself as he had previously. He wondered vaguely how long ago that had been. As long as he moved slowly and focused on what he was doing, he felt no more than a twinge of pain. Had he known less about Nagini, he would have been disappointed in the potency of his healing potion. As things stood, though, he was rather pleased. The fact that he had survived at all meant that the potion was successful. It had closed his wounds before he could bleed to death, and he knew from Arthur Weasley's experience in the Department of Mysteries that Nagini's venom made healing at all very difficult indeed.

But it had taken a lot out of him, nonetheless. He should have asked Miss Granger how long he'd spent in hospital, he realized. Originally, he hadn't anticipated being unconscious for more than a few hours; but days had clearly gone by, if not weeks or months. It was a stroke of good fortune that Potter had stumbled into the Shrieking Shack when he did. Otherwise, the message would have been delivered too late, and Severus would have cheated himself out of death for no reason at all.

He twisted his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck. It dawned on him that most of the sharp pain probably came from not from a residual injury but from cramped muscles. He had no idea how long he'd been lying in the same position, his head propped up on pillows that were stacked far higher than those on his bed were. The more he moved his head, the less pain he felt.

By the time he was satisfied that he'd warmed his neck and shoulder muscles sufficiently to let him move without further pain, pale streaks of light were beginning to appear in the sky. He placed his palms flat on the mattress and began to carefully maneuver into a sitting position. It seemed that he'd lost a noticeable amount of weight, judging by the thinness of his wrists and arms. He felt well rested; if he were a more optimistic man, he might even have said he felt refreshed. But he was weak, and although the potion had kept him alive, it hadn't kept him well nourished. Sitting up required effort that was well out of proportion to the task, and once he was reasonably upright, he had to stop and rest.

While he waited for some of his strength to return, he moved his attention to the bedside table. The vase was still there, as were the apple blossoms. Judging by their freshness, he had not slept for long, this time, although he supposed someone could have changed them. They seemed to infuse the air around them with the very essence of springtime. A photo album was sitting beside them, and he vaguely remembered seeing it there the first time he'd awakened. He didn't feel ready to attempt to stand up just yet, so instead he reached for the album.

It was bound in leather and, he thought, rather heavy, although he supposed most things would feel heavy to him at the moment. He didn't think he'd ever seen it before. The cover was soft; he thought it might be calfskin. He had never seen such a thing in the hospital wing before, and he wondered how it had come to be there, beside him—waiting for him. He hesitated before opening it, inclined to be mistrustful of unknown books. But he could sense no magic coming from it and so he allowed curiosity to get the better of him, and opened it.

A square piece of parchment had been laid over the photos on the first page. Letting the book rest on his lap, he picked up the parchment and held it before his face, turning it slightly to catch the faint light coming in from the windows. It was a note, addressed to him in the all-too-familiar scrawl of his least favorite student.

'_Headmaster Snape,_

_Madame Pomfrey says she expects that if you wake up, you'll need to stay in bed for a while. Hagrid gave this to me a few years ago, and I thought you be interested. I've removed the ones I thought you wouldn't like to see. Ron reckons I'm an idiot to be giving this to you, but I've spent more time in the hospital wing than he has. I know how boring it can get._

_Sincerely,  
Harry Potter_

_P.S. – Please don't tear these ones.'_

Severus read through the note twice. He'd been baffled until he reached the postscript, and then something in his stomach had clenched horribly. He couldn't believe he'd been fool enough to show Potter _that_ memory. He must have lost more blood by that point than he'd realized, to expose himself so foolishly. Still holding the note, he let his hand drop back to the bed. The yellowish parchment obscured the photographs in his lap, and he wondered whether he dared to move it and look.

"Impertinent brat," he muttered. Typical Gryffindor sentimentality. In a moment of weakness, Severus had revealed his feelings for Lily, and now Potter seemed to believe he could loan books and send notes to the most feared professor at Hogwarts. He scanned the note one more time. Potter was actually attempting to commiserate with him over being bored in the hospital wing. Potter was a fool--as if Severus wanted sympathy or commiseration from the seventeen-year-old son of his worst enemy.

_Lily's son_, he reminded himself. If he was willing to be honest, the gesture was far more similar to the boy's mother than to his father. He wondered what she would have done if she had known of the times he'd crawled back to Hogwarts, trembling under the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. He'd never let himself imagine anything like that before, but now he thought that she might have been kind. She might have sent along something small and interesting, knowing how he hated to be idle. She might not have told him he deserved every moment of his suffering.

Still, Potter had no right. It was sheer insolence.

Closing his eyes, he carefully set the parchment to one side. Had there been any color in his face to lose, it would have drained as he prepared himself to study the album, knowing he couldn't keep from doing it now that he was aware of what awaited him. When he had steeled himself as well as he was able, he opened his eyes again and looked.

The page held only two photos. He recognized them easily, having seen them both before. The first was a faded Muggle photograph. Lily, at the age of eleven, was eternally frozen beside her sister, preparing to board the Hogwarts Express. Petunia looked distinctly unpleasant, not having had time to rearrange her grimace into a smile before their father had pressed the shutter. Lily was gazing off to one side, beaming at something the camera had failed to capture. Severus touched the photograph with one long fingertip, remembering. She'd been looking at him.

Not for Severus the happy, proud parents, taking snapshots as their only son left them to become a wizard. Tobias Snape had stayed at home, and Eileen had been unwilling to linger with him. Her husband's face had been dangerous that morning, and she didn't dare to stay away for long. Severus had stood miserably alone on the platform, watching Lily and her family in silence.

She'd seen him, though, and her father had managed to capture the very moment her eyes had met his. He couldn't tear his eyes away—some part of him was reliving the surprise and pleasure he'd felt to see how happy she was to see him there. She had smiled so brilliantly that it obscured everything else.

Lily's parents had also recognized their daughter's playmate. He'd approached them and stood there in shy silence as they expressed their pleasure and surprise at discovering that he, too, was magical. When they understood that his mother was already gone, Mrs. Evans had fussed over him, wiping a smudge of dirt from his nose and then demanding that her husband take a photo of Severus and Lily, ready to board the train.

They'd owled a print that one to Lily, later in the year. She'd kept it in her dormitory all year, and during the summers it had pride of place on her bedside table. He forced himself to look away from the pictures as that memory surfaced, trying not to wonder what had become of that photo after their last goodbye. He doubted that she'd kept bringing it to school after their falling out. However, if it had stayed in her childhood home, Harry would surely have found it, as he had found this one. Most likely, he decided, she had destroyed it.

He let his fingertip drift across the page, to the other photo. This one he also recognized. He'd taken it himself, the November of their first year. They had borrowed a camera from one of Lily's friends, and he'd asked Lucius to buy them a developing potion in Hogsmeade. Lily had wanted to give moving photographs of herself to her Muggle relatives for Christmas. She'd pressed the camera on him and dragged him to the lake, standing on its edge and striking what she felt were glamorous poses. He'd laughed at her. She was so pleased with the final result that she'd given them to her favorite professors as well. Severus wondered which of them had kept it for so many years and passed it on to Harry. _Probably Minerva_, he decided. Lily had been a favorite of Minerva's, much as Hermione Granger was. He watched her, dancing about with her red and gold scarf, laughing up at him.

The sky outside was a rosy pink. As Severus raised his head to look at it (he _had_ to look away from those pictures for a minute), he heard the sonorous toll of the bell in the clock tower as it began to chime five o'clock. He scowled. The bell sounded every hour on the hour, all night as well as all day. The house dormitories were either too high or too low to absorb much of the sound, and at night Poppy usually cast a silencing charm over the room to ensure that her patients were not disturbed. Apparently, she'd forgotten that last night. He wondered if the four o'clock bell was what had wakened him.

Glancing around to see who else had been disturbed by the noise, he realized that the ward was empty, save for him. Normally, he would have been pleased to know that he was alone. He preferred for his students to see him only when he was healthy enough to intimidate them. Now, however, he felt strangely lonely. He would have welcomed the sight of another person, even a student. _Voldemort is dead_, he remembered. _'Normally' doesn't exist anymore_.

The more aware he became of his isolation, the less he could bear it. He needed to see someone else, and he knew there was at least one person within earshot.

"Poppy!" He bellowed. The volume of his voice startled him, echoing through the room. He waited for several minutes, and then shouted again.

Her door opened, and she emerged, looking decidedly rumpled. Given the fact that her light was on and that her clothes looked as though she hadn't changed them in over 24 hours, he guessed that she'd fallen asleep at her desk. She wasn't straightening her clothes or fixing her hair, though. She was staring at him like he was the Fat Friar.

Then she rushed to his side with a strangled exclamation of joy. It startled him. In all the years he'd known her, she had never been surprised by a patient's outcome. She had an uncanny knack for predicting the way that things would go, and she was more than able to steel herself to face even the direst prognosis. Although she bustled and muttered and complained, Severus considered that to be tantamount to the meaningless chatter of a Muggle stage magician. It was a persona—misdirection. Poppy, for as long as he'd known her, had always been an essentially unflappable woman when it came to her vocation.

She had snatched the photo album away from him and was studying him intently, examining the side of his neck. Cupping his face in her hands, she forced to look into her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, then tilted his head back. "Open your mouth, Severus."

He obliged. She muttered "_Lumos_" and lifted her wand, peering into his throat. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, she picked up his wrist and took his pulse, her fingers digging into him with unnecessary force. He chose not to react, though it hurt. He waited patiently as she dropped his wrist and began moving her wand in a complicated series of gestures over his body, speaking an incantation he didn't understand, although he recognized it as a standard diagnostic spell. Finally, she stopped and sat back, apparently satisfied.

"Poppy," Severus drawled, "I am well aware that it is your dearest wish to coddle me into senility as you did Dumbledore. However, I am afraid I simply cannot make it easy for you by actually developing any sort of serious ailment. Desist." He smirked, folding his hands in his lap and looking down his nose at her.

"Severus Tobias Snape," she breathed. "I will _kill_ you."

"I am, of course, equally delighted to see _you_ again, Poppy," he responded mildly. He felt that he might get carried away with the sheer pleasure of speaking to another live human being without pretense. She looked utterly frustrated, which only made him happier. Baiting Poppy Pomfrey was a hobby he had been enjoying for years. It was a comfortable routine; it made him feel at home again.

"You've always been a bad liar, Severus." She was making a vain attempt to look disapproving. His smirk grew wider.

"On the contrary. I am an excellent liar, as you are well aware. Now, have you finished manhandling me, or do I have more abuse to endure before I am provided with breakfast? I have been asleep for—" he paused uncertainly "—quite some time. I feel reasonably certain that it has not escaped your attention."

"Two and a half weeks." Her face took on an odd, strained expression. She looked like she was about to cry. It disturbed him.

"As you say: two and a half weeks. As a hostess, you have been beyond remiss."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Two and a half weeks, Poppy, and you have yet to offer me so much as a glass of water, to say nothing of, perhaps, some bacon and eggs." He assumed a disappointed air. "Really, I expected better of you. You are a representative, Madame Pomfrey, of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please try to conduct yourself as one."

Something like a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. "In that case, Severus, I hope you'll excuse me. Apparently I have an order to place with room service."

She hovered by his side for another moment, and then, to his deep surprise, she bent over him and kissed him on the forehead, patting his cheek with one hand. "If you want breakfast, then breakfast it shall be, my dear boy," she said, drawing back. "I will only say—I will only say that I'd nearly given up hope of ever being ordered about in my own hospital by you again." With that, she turned and hurried back towards her office to Floo the kitchens. "Leave that book for now. You still need rest," she ordered over her shoulder as she left.

"On your conscience be it if I don't get toast!" He shouted at her retreating back. He settled back into his pillows, a feeling of contentment stealing over him. All in all, he decided, if he had to be alive, at least his circumstances were not entirely bad.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Thank you so much to everyone who's left reviews! It's definitely an inspiration to me to keep going with this. 

I will be addressing the question of Harry's paternity as the story continues. It's been suggested to me as a possibility and I think that in the face of all his losses, Harry would grab on to the slightest hint of having some sort of living family other than the Dursleys. Personally, though, I'm more of Hermione's opinion on the matter.


	7. Revelio

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 7: Revelio**

* * *

The Weasleys were among the families that refused to leave the grounds of Hogwarts after the battle. Most of them were crammed into the tent that Harry, Ron and Hermione had spent the winter living in; Harry was staying with them. They'd invited Hermione to join them as well, but she had declined. The cheerful, freckled faces and ubiquitous red hair of her best friend's family had become, for her, a constant reminder of death. Harry seemed to find solace in their company, but all Hermione could see when she looked at them was Fred's lifeless body, laid out in preparation for burial.

So she had asked Professor McGonagall, still Deputy Headmistress, for permission to move into the Gryffindor tower. She was alone. Everybody else who might have stayed there was either dead or with family.

It was still very early morning, and she was relatively certain that nobody else would be awake. She made the bed and then looked around the room. Students in her year had lost their lives. Some students far younger than her had done the same. They would never have the chance to return to the tower in which they had lived for most of the formative years of their lives. It was not a surprise to anyone that, lately, Hermione Granger always looked sad.

Making sure the door was closed, Hermione sat down on her bed and took out the small beaded bag that she still carried with her wherever she went. She opened it and dumped the contents on the bed. A huge pile of books, clothes, shoes, vials and other odds and ends formed on top of her gold coverlet. On top of the pile lay Phineas Nigellus Black's gilded portrait frame. She gasped in surprise; she'd forgotten all about him.

With a tap of her wand, the frame enlarged to its normal size. She leaned it against the headboard. There was nothing to be seen but the muddy black of the background. "Sir?" She said to it. "Headmaster Black? Are you there?"

A few seconds passed, and then she heard a faint, haughty sniff and Phineas Nigellus strode into the frame. He eyed her warily. "Not going to blindfold me again, are you, girl?"

"No, sir," she said hastily, stowing her wand behind her back. "I only wanted to—well, to thank you, sir, for all of your help. Harry told me what he saw in the Pensieve."

Phineas Nigellus gave her a sly look. "Yes, I saw him. Didn't talk to me, though. Ran headlong into the office, dumped the memories into the Pensieve and dived right in. Always in a rush, that one."

She wondered if he knew about Professor Snape. "Have you spoken with Professor McGonagall, sir?"

"Dumbledore has. I hear that Snape is dying." He leaned forward and looked at her with piercing eyes. "Is it true?"

"He woke up late yesterday afternoon. I spoke to him. He seemed much better."

"You spoke with him, eh? What were you doing in the hospital wing?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Phineas Nigellus was giving her a look she didn't like much—cool and appraising. It was a very Slytherin expression, one she had seen countless times from Death Eaters and classmates alike. She'd never gotten used to it; it made her feel naked. "I was sitting with him," she admitted.

"Ah yes, of course," he sneered. "Now that you know he was on your side after all, Gryffindor loyalty rears its ugly head."

"I knew all along," she muttered tersely.

"Why the blindfold, then?"

"I said _I_ knew. Harry didn't."

Phineas Nigellus didn't say anything, but he gave a soft, short laugh. Although his look was approving, the laugh was not completely pleasant. Hermione ignored it and pressed on.

"I only wanted to tell you, sir, how much I appreciate your help. And to assure you that we'll be returning you to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible." She lifted her wand and rested the tip on top of the frame. Before she could speak, however, he lifted one hand.

"You're welcome, Hermione Granger," he said. She tapped the portrait with her wand, and it shrank immediately. She set it aside. She had other things to do at the moment, and having a long heart-to-heart with the most hated headmaster in the history of Hogwarts was not on the list. With a half smile, she wondered if Phineas Nigellus would have to relinquish that particular title in the wake of Professor Snape's tenure.

0 0 0

Severus looked down at the tray Poppy had set on his bed. Arranged neatly on silver and green plates were eggs benedict, toast, a buttered scone, bacon, tea, and a tall glass of water. The tangy smell of hollandaise sauce was tickling his nostrils. He could not remember the last time he'd been so ravenous.

"Don't eat too fast, and don't keep eating once you're full," Poppy said, sitting down in the crimson and gold armchair to watch him eat. "You've had next to nothing in your stomach for two and a half weeks, and you'll make yourself ill if you eat too much at once. I don't intend to allow you to finish everything on that tray."

"Typical," he murmured, giving her a disappointed look from behind the thick hair that fell across his face. "You always were a tease."

She snorted. Severus turned his attention to the tray, picking up the heavy silver fork and taking a bite of egg. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes. It was quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He chewed slowly, savoring the food as he rarely gave himself liberty to do. When he had swallowed, he opened his eyes again and took a deep breath. Poppy was eyeing him with great satisfaction.

"I must say, the house-elves seem to have outdone themselves."

"It's not every day our Headmaster cheats death. Eat up, boy."

"First you tell me not to eat, then you demand that I do. I would appreciate it if you would choose an order and stick with it."

"I stand by what I said. Don't overdo it." She studied his face with an indulgent smile. "But you have no idea how good it is to see you actually _enjoying_ something."

He made a polite noise of disbelief and took another bite. It really was delicious. He ate in silence for several minutes before he began to feel full and reluctantly set his fork down. The plate was still more than half-filled, and he considered having a few more bites, but Poppy pounced on it immediately and carried the tray away. He shrugged and leaned into his pillows, letting his head fall back onto them comfortably. Eating had tired him out, and he began to think about having another nap.

"Before you drift off, Severus, I'd like to speak with you about something." She had returned, and was standing above him, a thin new wrinkle appearing in her brow as she spoke. He raised his eyebrows, inviting her to continue.

"That book, on the table. I know you were reading it this morning. Harry Potter brought it by shortly after he carried you in here, and I let him leave it, because he insisted. But," she leaned forward, frowning. "I looked in it, and I know what it is. You've had a close call, and you need to rest. I don't advise looking through it any more until you've had time to gather your strength."

Severus felt his shoulders getting tenser as she spoke. "I don't know what you're talking about, Poppy. Nor do I know why Potter thought I would be interested in pictures of his mother."

"Don't be a fool, Severus. You've spent more than two weeks talking in your sleep, and I'm not an idiot. Besides," she hesitated, "everybody knows."

If Severus hadn't known that they were alone, he would have suspected that someone had surreptitiously cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on him."What do you mean?" He said, very slowly. She wasn't looking at him anymore. In fact, she was looking everywhere possible except at him.

"It—came up in a rather public discussion."

He didn't move. He couldn't move. The fight-or-flight response that had lain dormant in him since before he went in to have his final confrontation with Voldemort had reawakened with a vengeance and if he moved, he was sure that he would have to flee. "A public discussion?"

"Between Harry Potter and… and You-Know-Who."

He closed his eyes with a groan. He was an idiot. Dumbledore's blasted sentimentality had rubbed off on him and he'd gone soft in the head, clearly. What had he been thinking, giving those memories to Potter? He should have known that the boy wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut. He never could.

"I just thought you ought to know. They were in the Great Hall. Everyone heard." She lapsed into silence after that, but he didn't hear her move away. She seemed to be trying to come up with something else to say.

Finally, he heard her clear her throat. "Just to let you know, Severus," she said, gently. He felt one of her hands as it came to rest on top of his head, but he couldn't muster the wherewithal to shake it off. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have been nothing if not noble."

From somewhere, he found the strength to turn away, rolling onto his side with his back to her. She stood there for a few minutes more, and then he finally heard her walk away. With a breath of thanks for his years of Occlumency practice, he pushed everything from his mind, and fell asleep. Time enough to deal with Potter when he wasn't so tired.

0 0 0

Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by books. There was a heap of them on her left, and a neat stack on her right. She had pulled her hair back into a bun so tight that not a single errant curl could bother her as she searched for the book she wanted. It was a utilitarian look, but it created an illusion of smoothness that her hair rarely had otherwise (short of very liberal application of Sleekeazy), and it kept it out of her way. She'd taken to wearing her hair that way nearly all the time of late.

With a hiss of irritation, she slammed yet another book shut and placed it on the stack with the others. She'd been at it for nearly an hour and, as far as she could tell, she was no closer to her goal than before. She reached for the next book—her tattered copy of Hogwarts: A History, now woefully out of date. For a moment, her hand hovered over the stack of discarded books, but then she thought better of it, and flipped it open instead. Although she knew the book practically by heart, she didn't trust herself not to overlook some small mention of the potion. She needed something, anything that would help her remember where she'd read about it before. It reminded her of the search for Nicholas Flamel in their first year.

She sighed. The book was no help, so she reluctantly set it on top of the stack and kept going. A half-hour went by, and then another. There were only three books left. She reached without looking, and then hesitated, looking down at the volume in her hands. It was an antique, cloth-bound book that her mother had found in a Muggle flea market the summer before. She'd given it to Hermione as a gift the day before Hermione Obliviated her parents and put them on the plane to Australia.

The book's dimensions were no bigger than a standard paperback novel, but it was very thick, and surprisingly heavy. Its cover was dark green, and covered with stains. In small, gold letters, it read 'The Potioneer's Portfolio'. Hermione guessed it dated back to the 18th century, but she couldn't tell for sure, and there was no date on the inside cover.

"You'll probably think it's a bit of a joke," her mother had said with a laugh, "But I found it at a flea market and I thought of you at once. Just because I love you, darling."

Hermione had taken it, overcome by a wave of guilt at the knowledge that in twenty-four hours, her mother would know of no reason at all to buy Potions books (even silly Muggle attempts at them) for anyone. Mrs. Granger was watching her, so she'd flipped the book open and noticed with surprise that the first recipe her eyes fell upon was for Felix Felicis. As she'd flipped through the pages, scanning each in turn, she hadn't found a single recipe that looked inauthentic.

"I've got no idea how you could have found this in a flea market, mum," she'd finally said, not looking up from the page she was now staring at—a potion entitled _Verus Ortus_, with a subtitle reading 'To authenticate bloodlines.' "It's definitely a real Potions book."

Her mother had beamed and given her a hug. "Then I'm happy I decided to buy it. I just want you to know—I know how difficult things have been for you since your headmaster died. I'm so proud of you, Hermione," she'd said, and then, seeing that her daughter was on the verge of tears, she'd tactfully gone to the kitchen to help her husband finish preparing dinner. Hermione had looked at the book for several minutes longer. There were a number of potions in it that she'd never heard of, some of which were outdated (one seemed to be a very early version of the Wolfsbane potion), and others which seemed to be borderline Dark magic.

After she'd ensured that her parents were safely on their way to Australia, with no idea who she was or that they'd ever had a daughter to begin with, Hermione had returned home and packed her things for the trip to Ron's. She had almost left the Portfolio at home, but at the last minute had tucked it into her knapsack, unwilling to leave behind that last memento of her mother's pride and love for her. She'd brought it along in her beaded bag partly as a keepsake, and partly in the hope that it might prove useful.

Now she looked at it again, wondering what her parents were doing at that moment. Things at Hogwarts had been occupying her so completely that she hadn't yet given much thought to the matter of restoring their memories and returning them to England. There were Death Eaters still on the loose, and Hermione wasn't sure her parents would be safe if she brought them back just yet.

She opened the book, scanning each page carefully until she found the one she was looking for. It was near the back of the book. Nearly every page was stained or damaged in some way, but this one was almost pristine, although yellowed with age. She read through the recipe, her brow furrowing in concentration. It was a complicated potion, and although the ingredients were simple enough, it would take time and careful management to brew it successfully.

As she reached the bottom of the page, she frowned. The last four ingredients were not listed until the instructions for administering the potion. At least two of them were going to be very problematic.

Sweeping the unneeded books and other items back into her tiny bag, she slipped it into the drawer of her bedside table, putting green book into an inner pocket of her robe. She glanced at the clock. It was seven-thirty. Harry and Ron would still be fast asleep, and she didn't want to disturb them.

Heading for the stairs, she remembered one other task she'd left undone, and decided to pay a visit to Professor Snape, instead.

0 0 0

He heard her come in. It wasn't difficult to do—the room was utterly silent except for the noise of her footsteps. He heard the faint scrape of the chair legs against the floor as she settled herself into it, and then silence fell again. He allowed himself the luxury of a mental curse. He had hoped that she'd only come in to visit with Poppy, and not to sit with him, but of course he could not be so lucky. He considered pretending that he was still asleep, but it something in him would not let him attempt it.

He opened his eyes. Hermione was curled into the chair as she had been the last time he'd seen her—knees up, hugging herself. Unlike the last time, however, she was looking straight at him. Staring at him. He expected her to flinch, and maybe even to blush and look away when she noticed he was still awake, but she didn't. He saw her jaw tighten a bit, but otherwise she didn't react to him at all. Instead, she looked at him as though she had something to say, and wasn't quite sure how to begin. It was a look he was well accustomed to—almost everybody looked at him like that.

Wishing that she would avert her eyes and allow him some dignity, he kept still for a minute or two. When she gave no indication that she was going to move anytime soon, he gave in and began the laborious process of sitting up, trying to forget that she was watching him struggle against the weakness of his body. He had no intention of lying there like an invalid in front of her, of all people, even if it meant displaying the fact that even to sit up cost him a great deal of effort.

When he began to maneuver himself up, she immediately leaned forward, reaching out to him. "Let me help you, Professor—" she said, her voice clearly indicating her concern for him.

"If I wanted your help, Miss Granger, I would have asked for it. Keep your hands to yourself," he snapped angrily. She immediately withdrew her hands, clasping them nervously in her lap and staring at him again. She reminded him of a Cheshire cat, he thought, the way she was staring. She was, he noted, also just as annoying as one.

When he was seated comfortably, he turned his head to face her, gathering his features into the darkest scowl he could manage. "Miss Granger," he said, "I do not know to what I owe the…_pleasure_…of your company. However, let me assure you that it is a pleasure I would readily forgo." Again, he expected her to flinch, and again, she didn't. She compressed her lips, suddenly developing an uncanny resemblance to Minerva McGonagall. It only made his scowl grow more pronounced. He was used to eliciting a response, and he wasn't succeeding with her at all. That is to say, he wasn't frightening her. Instead, she was opening her mouth to speak.

"I wanted to see how you were feeling, and if you'd woken up again, sir," she said meekly. She, like Poppy, was avoiding his eyes. It made him unaccountably angry. For some reason, it reminded him that yesterday he'd reached out and touched her, calling her by Lily's name. No wonder she wouldn't look at him. She pitied him. The thought made his skin crawl.

"As you can see, I am awake. However, what you seem to be incapable of understanding is that I am not here for your entertainment. I will not be made into some sort of side-show to be stared at. I have no interest in your pity or your condescension."

For a split second, he thought she looked angry. Something flashed behind her eyes, and she tilted her chin up a little more. "I'm not staring at you, sir," she said smoothly; and then: "and I'm not scared of you, either."

"Ten points from Gryffindor for your insolence, Miss Granger."

"I'm not a student here anymore, Headmaster. Nor is school in session."

"There are ways around that," he muttered. She remained silent.

After a brief silence, he burst out again: "You cannot help but be aware that I have been injured, and currently am incapable of forcibly removing you from my presence. Please understand that were it possible, I would have done so already. I assume that you have some motive for inflicting yourself on me. Explain yourself."

"Of course I'm aware that you're injured, sir. I was there." She still appeared calm. Severus, however, was adept at reading people, and beneath her placid exterior he could sense her growing tension. He scowled darkly.

"If you are capable of making a point, I suggest that you get to yours quickly," he snarled. "Although you may take pleasure in listening to your own inane chatter, I assure you that I do not. Since I am no longer your teacher, I am no longer obligated to suffer due to your inability to keep your mouth shut and your nose out of things that don't concern you." It was intolerable of her to be there, forcing her company on him. How did she dare? Anybody with the remotest amount of sense would understand that he would not, could not endure her presence after having been so exposed before her. It was impossible to bear with equanimity, and she had the gall to sit there and look reproachful at his anger.

"I came to bring you your wand," she said icily. He seemed to have touched a nerve. Where a moment ago she had been quiet and nervous, she suddenly seemed to crackle with anger. "I took it for safekeeping before Harry brought you here, as Kingsley Shacklebolt was having trouble convincing his aurors not to find and arrest you at the time. They would have taken it from Madame Pomfrey and snapped it. I suppose I should have just left it on the floor of the Shrieking Shack for anybody to take."

She stood up, pulled the wand from her sleeve, and dropped it unceremoniously into his lap. Not giving him a chance to respond, she turned on her heel and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

He stared at the wand, picking it up and twirling it between his fingertips. It felt comfortable and familiar. A few green sparks burst from the tip and drifted lazily towards the floor, where they disappeared. He frowned. He'd assumed that Poppy had his wand. Then again, he'd assumed that Poppy was somehow responsible for him ending up in the hospital wing. When he thought about it, that assumption made very little sense indeed.

"You always were a charmer, Severus." Poppy was standing at the foot of his bed, making a note on the slip of parchment that served as his chart. He scowled at her, although she politely ignored it. "That girl saved your life. I hope you thanked her, before you started shouting at her."

"Hermione Granger did not save my life."

She put the parchment down, regarding him with honest surprise. "Severus, do you really think you'd be alive if she hadn't gone back for you?"

"Poppy, Miss Granger and Mr. Potter witnessed the Dark Lord's attack on me. Going back to fetch my corpse for burial and finding me to be disappointingly alive hardly qualifies either of them to say they saved my life."

"Of course. You don't know. That's not how it happened at all. Hermione was hit with a curse—not sure what, exactly. Whatever it was only grazed her, she wasn't badly hurt. Molly Weasley was tending to her and said she couldn't get the girl to be quiet. She kept insisting that you were lying in the Shrieking Shack and that we needed to go back and fetch you."

Severus suddenly remembered, disconcertingly, seeing her pick up the empty vial from his robes and stare at it before she handed it to Potter to be filled with his memories.

"They brought her to me and I confess, I thought she'd gone a bit mad. Harry Potter finally agreed to go back with her and carry you to the castle. I don't think he believed her either, but there was no other way to quiet her down. So they went. You can imagine my surprise when they returned with you and you were not, in fact, dead."

"I suspected that the Dark Lord might attack someone with the snake. I had a potion prepared."

"And a smashingly good one, too, Severus, but not good enough."

He curled his lip. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Poppy regarded him thoughtfully, as if he were an article in _Mediwitch Monthly_ that she wasn't quite sure she agreed with. "You are, but it is not thanks to any potion that you took. You should be dead."

"What do you mean?" He said sharply. He did not like the thought that he might actually have a life-debt to Hermione Granger. Not at all.

"The potion kept you alive, but you were fading by the time they brought you back here. If you hadn't been carried back when you were, you wouldn't have survived for another hour. You don't seem to understand how close you really came to dying, my boy. She saved your life by getting you here when she did. And then—well. That should be enough for you," she finished lamely. He studied her face carefully. She'd caught herself before saying something that she didn't want him to hear. She should have been more careful; she had to know he would push her to finish the story now.

"And then what?"

"It doesn't matter, Severus, you already know enough."

"You will have to tell me eventually. I would prefer to know the extent of my indebtedness as soon as possible."

"She's been here almost every night. I don't know what she was doing, but she did _something_."

"Explain."

"Your potion worked. Physically, you have been in adequately good shape for two and a half weeks. But you were dying nonetheless. My skills only go so far, and I cannot keep people alive who have no intention of being so."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I don't know why the potion wasn't enough to keep you alive on its own, so I don't know what she had to do to keep you alive. If I knew exactly what she did, I would have told you. The most I know is that she did _something_. I could feel it. Wandless magic—like a little child might do, Severus. I'm not sure she even knew she was doing it. All she ever did was sit there and stare at you."

Poppy hesitated, and there was a long silence before she spoke again: "I've seen quite a great deal in my career, and I've seen enough to tell you without a shadow of a doubt that if it was not for her, you would be dead by now."

"That's absurd."

Poppy sighed. "Try to be a little nicer to her, if she comes back."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Man, I thought it was going to be hard writing Snape, but it turns out it's way harder to write Hermione. 

Thanks so much to everyone who's left reviews (even the nitpicky ones that make me feel stupid). Should be another update by tomorrow night (8/4). Enjoy!


	8. Not Quite Remedial Potions

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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Chapter 8: Not Quite Remedial Potions

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Hermione walked to the Weasleys' tent, still seething from her conversation with Professor Snape. She should have known that if he were awake he'd be horrible. People like him, she reminded herself, were incapable of normal behavior. She was a fool for expecting he might be able to manage a little civility, even for the girl who saved his life. _Especially for the girl who saved his life, probably_, she decided. Being allied with the right side didn't make someone a nice person. If it did, things would have been simpler all along—Harry and Ron would have been right about Snape's loyalties, for one thing.

She let herself into the tent, not caring who she woke. Molly Weasley was already up and preparing breakfast with the aid of Kreacher, who insisted on remaining wherever Harry was staying. Harry was standing in the entranceway to the kitchen area, looking as though he were still half-asleep, and she could hear Ron snoring blissfully from his bed.

"Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley beamed, bustling forward to embrace her. "Joining us for breakfast, dear? Do have a seat and let me make you a cup of tea." Hermione took a seat and watched Mrs. Weasley flutter around the room, preparing a cup of tea. There was a note of false cheerfulness about her that made her cringe. Mrs. Weasley's boggart had taken the form of each of her children, dead on the floor. Hermione couldn't imagine what it would be like for her deepest fear to become a reality.

Granted, her deepest fear the last time that she'd met a boggart had been rather immature and self-absorbed. Harry and Ron had teased her about it time and again. She felt certain that she'd see something else now, but she wasn't entirely sure what it would be. She didn't want to think about it. As Harry came and sat next to her, she shook those thoughts from her head and passed him the sugar bowl.

"S'unhealthy to be awake this early in the morning, Hermione," he muttered, taking the cup of tea that Mrs. Weasley was offering him and adding sugar with a liberal hand.

"I was studying."

"You don't even go to school any more, Hermione, don't you think that's a bit extreme?" Said a voice from behind them. Ginny Weasley looked almost as sleepy as Harry did. She was still in pajamas, and her copper hair was tangled, sticking out at odd angles. She dropped into a chair, yawning dramatically. Harry watched her out of the corner of his eye, and Hermione wondered if they'd patched things up officially yet. If they hadn't, they surely would have to do it soon. Harry couldn't keep his eyes off of her and Ginny seemed well aware of it.

"Don't be silly, Ginny," said Mrs. Weasley. "You'll all be going back to school this fall to finish preparing for your NEWTs. Hermione's always been studious—she's just preparing. You should be taking a page out of her book, Ginny. You're both going to be seventh years together, you know. You can't start studying too soon!"

Harry looked as though the thought of returning to school had never occurred to him. Hermione, however, took the cue. "Oh yes," she said immediately, "I'm terribly worried about being so far behind. I thought I ought to review everything we learned in sixth year to be sure I'm prepared for the seventh year material. I'm sure I've forgotten it all."

"Nonsense, dear," said Mrs. Weasley affectionately. Harry, who had begun nodding sleepily over his tea, didn't seem to have heard. Ginny just rolled her eyes.

"Can I help you with breakfast, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Don't even think of it. Kreacher's done practically all of it anyway. Nothing left but to wake up the rest of the boys." They'd magically expanded the interior of the tent even more than it already was, creating an extra room to accommodate all the Weasleys who were staying there. Mrs. Weasley walked towards that room now, shouting the names of her husband and sleeping sons as she went.

"Breakfast ready?" asked Bill, popping his head in the door. He and Fleur had pitched their own tent nearby. "Fleur would have cooked something for us herself but she's feeling a bit off this morning." Ginny beckoned him in, and he helped himself to a cup of coffee, sitting down and striking up a conversation about Quidditch with his sister.

By the time all the Weasleys were assembled for breakfast, Hermione had managed to convey to Harry and Ron that she had news. They shared a companionable, if subdued, meal. Since Fred's death, George had become so much less talkative as to be almost taciturn. Conversations tended to die quickly without their playful banter to keep people amused and interested. Only Mrs. Weasley behaved more or less as she normally did, and Hermione knew her well enough to tell that it was an act. _First her brothers, and now her son_, thought Hermione, watching with pity. _No wonder she was able to kill Bellatrix Lestrange_.

As soon as they were finished eating, Ron, Harry and Ginny exchanged significant looks and separated to get dressed. Hermione met them outside the tent.

"Did you find it?" said Harry immediately. Hermione reached into her robe and pulled out the book, handing it to him.

"Brilliant!" cried Ron. Hermione looked around anxiously, wishing he'd be quieter. They were standing on a makeshift path, bordered closely on either side by tents of various shapes and sizes. Not for the first time, she was forcibly reminded of the campgrounds at the Quidditch World Cup. She wondered what would happen if Death Eaters arrived here, as they had there. Somehow, she thought, people would be less likely to put up with it this time. Regardless, it wasn't a good place to talk. Apparently stealth was not a skill that Ron was ever going to learn adequately.

"Harry," Ginny said, laying one hand on his arm. "Don't stand and read it right here. Let's go find somewhere a little less public."

Harry reluctantly handed the book back to Hermione. "Gryffindor common room?"

"That'll probably work. Haven't seen a lot of people there lately."

As they expected, the common room was deserted. Hermione sat on the sofa with the book on her lap, and Harry and Ron squeezed in on either side of her. Ginny looked at the grouping impassively for a moment, and then sat down unceremoniously on Harry's lap. Harry turned beet red.

"Ginny!" said Ron, looking scandalized. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm sitting down, Ron. Close your mouth, you look like a fish. Anyway, let's get on with it, Hermione—where did you get that book?"

Hermione opened it. "My mum gave it to me last year. The ingredients are common enough, most of them, but it's going to take a while to brew it, and I'm not sure where we're going to find everything if we're not here over the summer. Term will be over in a week, and I don't know if they're going to let people keep staying here once the castle's back to normal."

Harry leaned over, looking interested. "What _are_ the ingredients?"

"Armadillo bile, jobberknoll feathers, bayberries, shredded eyebright, powdered root of asphodel, infusion of bittersweet, rosemary, dried hellebore, bindweed, and maiden's hair. And not the plant—it means hair from a virgin." Hermione hesitated. "We shouldn't have problems finding most of those."

"That makes sense. What about the rest?" Ginny asked. Of the students in her year, she was better than most at potions. Harry was furrowing his brow, trying to remember the uses of the ingredients she'd listed. Ron looked completely lost.

"Wait," he said, "why does that make sense?"

Ginny clicked her tongue impatiently, but Hermione passed the book to him, pointing at each ingredient in turn with her wand as she explained.

"Armadillo bile for clear thinking. You should know that one, Ron, Wit-sharpening Potion was back in fourth year. Jobberknoll feathers for truthfulness and memory. Bayberry and eyebright are for vision, asphodel for regret—bittersweet is for truth, too. That makes sense, since it's really the whole point of the potion," she explained. Ron seemed to be following, more or less, so she kept going: "Rosemary ensures remembrance, hellebore relieves anxiety, and bindweed is for uncertainty. That's what defines the purpose of the potion so it answers a question instead of just being a truth serum. The virgin's hair I'm not sure about. I'd guess it's got something to do with purity or innocence."

Harry looked impressed. Ron seemed to be thinking about something very hard and not coming up with the answer he wanted. "Hermione," he said suddenly. "How do you establish _what_ question the potion is going to answer?"

Hermione took the book back, marking the page carefully and closing it. "That's the part that's going to be difficult." She took a deep breath. "It isn't a terribly nice potion, in the end. I suppose it couldn't be, given that it's all about infidelity and blood purity. Some people used to get really unpleasant about it."

Ginny snorted. "Used to?"

"This is where we get to the uncommon ingredients, isn't it?" said Harry. Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You said _most_ of the ingredients were common—" she looked surprised that he'd paid that much attention and he shrugged "—You're easier to listen to than Snape."

"Hermione," said Ginny seriously, "whose do we need?"

"What do you mean," interrupted Ron. "Whose what?"

"Blood," Hermione said. "And that's the complicated part. We'll need Harry's; that's easy enough, of course. But we also need blood from his mother or a very close relative other than Harry, and blood from the potential father."

Ginny seemed to have been expecting this answer, and she nodded. Ron and Harry, however, were looking less than pleased.

"It's no good, then, is it?" Ron asked. "I mean, Harry's mum isn't exactly around to get a blood sample from, and even if she were, I don't fancy trying to get any blood out of Snape, short of going and asking him for it. You might be up for that, Hermione, but I'm out. Can you imagine what he'd say if we told him about this?"

"I said it was going to be complicated," Hermione snapped. "But, it isn't impossible. I said mother_ or_ a close relative. One of Harry's mother's close relatives is still alive, in case you hadn't forgotten. And as for Professor Snape, well, I don't know what we're going to do about that. I'm sure we'll think of something."

Harry gently pushed Ginny off his lap and stood up, crossing to the other side of the room and staring out the window. Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione caught his eye and shook her head warningly. They sat in silence for a long time, watching Harry wrestle through his thoughts.

Finally, Ginny stood up and walked over to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her. "Harry," she said softly, "She's right. It's complicated, but it's not impossible. I don't know if the information is worth it to you, but if it is, I'll help you brew the potion."

Harry looked strained. "You don't understand. My whole life, I've thought my parents were dead—_both_ of my parents. But if my dad isn't actually my dad, and Snape is—" He turned to look back out the window, and when he spoke again, his voice was very soft:

"If Snape's my father, I'll get something I've never had before. And I know," he said hastily, "that if he is and we can prove it, that probably won't change the circumstances at all. He is the way he is. But it would change something for _me_. Even if he wasn't everything I imagined my dad to be, he'd be the real thing. There's something to say for that. Either way—I have to _know_, or else I'll spend the rest of my life wondering."

"Well, Harry," Hermione said. "It's going to take two months to brew before we need the—the blood. If you want to go through with it, we can get started as soon as we have the ingredients together."

"Not here, though. There are too many people around. I have no idea if the Room of Requirement is safe and I can't think of anywhere else secret enough to work on a potion like this. It's probably restricted. We should go back to Grimmauld Place." Harry had a determined look on his face. Having made the decision about whether or not to brew the potion, his mind was charging ahead with plans. "How soon do you think we can get everything together?"

Before anyone could answer him, the door to the portrait hole burst open, and Neville stumbled in, carrying a knapsack and looking flustered. He shut the door hastily behind him and dropped the knapsack on the floor. "Peeves chased me up here from the entrance hall with an armful of Dungbombs," he said, by way of explanation. "Gran's going home today, but I didn't want to leave yet, so she arranged with McGonagall for me to stay up here." He looked around at them curiously. "What are you all up to?"

Ron started to say something dismissive, but Harry interrupted: "Neville, I've got a question for you."

Neville looked surprised. "Sure, Harry, what?"

"We need to get together some potions ingredients—plants. Could you help us get them, d'you think?"

Neville's round face suddenly seemed to glow with pleasure. "Sure, Harry, I probably could. What do you need?"

"Hermione can write you a list. Most of them are pretty common, but we're going to be in London and it's harder to come by fresh ingredients there. I knew you'd help us, Neville. You're best of any of us at Herbology. Thanks, mate."

Neville set his knapsack down on a table and took a seat near the rest of them, looking interested. "What are you brewing? Gran was furious I'd dropped Potions last year; she said if I really wanted to be an Herbologist, I ought to understand Potions because that's the field most closely associated with Herbology. She arranged for me to have private lessons with Slughorn." He made a face. "It wasn't great, but I learned a lot—she was right, really. I still don't like it and I can't brew anything complicated to save my life, I'm just too clumsy, but I understand the theory really well now. I learned a lot before… well, before I had to stop."

"Neville, that's wonderful!" Hermione said. "I'm really pleased to hear that you kept on with studying Potions. I've always thought that it wasn't smart to drop classes when you could just keep studying till you understand it."

Ron coughed loudly, making a noise that sounded oddly similar to 'Divination.' Hermione chose to ignore it. "I think we're all going to be staying at Harry's house for most of the summer, Neville. Would your grandmother let you come stay with us in London for a few weeks?"

Neville said he thought that she would, and accepted the invitation enthusiastically. He was so thrilled to have been invited that he didn't seem to notice the fact that his question had gone unanswered. Long experience had taught them that the fewer people who knew a secret, the easier it was to keep. Hermione decided she would leave it up to Harry to tell Neville or not, although she suspected that he would only help them so much without knowing what it was. The last year had taught Neville Longbottom quite a few lessons, and he wasn't likely to blindly trust anyone, even Harry Potter, for long. Hopefully Harry would remember that Neville, too, had changed quite a bit in the last year. She was pretty sure that at this point, having Neville on their side could only be an asset.

"I've been meaning to tell you: you were amazing with that snake, Neville," she said. "Dumbledore always said that only a true Gryffindor could pull that sword out of the Sorting Hat." She lowered her voice, so that only he could hear her.

"Your parents would be really proud of you."

He turned bright red and mumbled something indistinct. Hermione smiled, found a piece of parchment and a quill, opened the Potions book again and started writing.

"Here's what we're going to need…"

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The uses of the potions ingredients come from various sources. The non-plant ingredients (armadillo bile, etc.) come from the very useful Encyclopedia of Potions at The plants and their symbolism come from a few books I have on herbs, both their medicinal use, and their symbolism in victorian and medieval britain.

After Snape, Neville Longbottom is my all-time favorite Harry Potter character. I'm just a sucker for lost boys, I guess. Ever since the scene in St. Mungo's with his parents, I've wanted to squeeze him and hug him and pet him and bake him cookies and make him feel all better for ever and ever. When he killed Nagini, I burst into tears.


	9. Severus Unbound

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 9: Severus Unbound**

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Minerva McGonagall walked into the hospital wing, leaning on a cane. Severus had chosen not to press Poppy for news of all the injuries and casualties sustained during the final battle. He was unsurprised to see that Minerva was among them, however. It stood to reason that she would be. She would fight to the death for Hogwarts and her students if need be, and it was only to be expected that she would sustain some injuries in the process, at the very least. As she limped over to him, he was thankful that he was already sitting up. His strength was gradually returning, but he did not trust his body to move with its familiar grace or ease just yet. Although the war was won, there were still battles left to fight, and projecting an image of strength was imperative. Between the two of them, he thought with a curl of his lip, they were hardly succeeding at that. 

"Minerva," he said rather stiffly, inclining his head. They had barely spoken in the last year, and he was not entirely sure what she thought of him. He had done what he could to assist her, but the Carrows watched him constantly, and it was difficult to know how well she'd read his veiled attempts to help.

"Severus." She paused a moment. "May I just say—I'm sorry for the moments when I doubted you."

"Doubted me? Did you really?" He murmured sarcastically, a feeling of disappointment stealing over him. Apparently his overtures of friendship during the occupation of Hogwarts had been too subtle.

"Only in the last moments. People began to say you'd run away. I doubted you then."

He blinked. This time, she _had_ managed to surprise him, at least a little. "Why not before?" He asked.

"I may be a Gryffindor, Severus, but I am well enough acquainted with Slytherins to know when they're being less than forthright. I have worked beside you for nearly seventeen years, and known you longer than that. You may have been indulging in all of your deepest, darkest fantasies of cruelty, but your heart wasn't in it."

His expression didn't change, exactly, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes. Minerva had a way with words that he appreciated.

"Besides, it may have been years since Albus has seen your Patronus, but I saw it a year and a half ago. If you wanted to be secretive about your feelings, you should have known better than to send me a message that way. I'm the one who taught Lily how to cast one, and I haven't forgotten what it looked like when she did."

"A foolish reason to trust someone, Minerva," he sneered. "The appearance of my Patronus illuminates nothing whatsoever about my loyalties."

She nodded slowly. "By itself, it explains only that you loved Lily, which I already knew quite well. However, after the…events…of last spring, Harry Potter shared some interesting information with the Order."

"That boy will forever be a thorn in my side," he growled. She looked amused.

"Poor Severus. You're quite right, you know. It was hardly fair of Albus to entrust your secrets to a boy who wouldn't know a cloak and dagger if Peeves dropped them on his head."

Severus snorted in amusement. She took it as a sign to continue.

"I don't suppose you know what Harry told us, do you? He said that the reason Albus trusted you so much was because you reported Sibyl's prophecy to You-Know-Who and were overcome with remorse when you discovered that the information had led to the death of the Potters."

She fixed her eyes on him, watching his face intently. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Remus was horrified," she chuckled. "He felt that Albus had taken trustfulness to entirely new levels of excess by accepting _that_ as a reason why Severus Snape might change sides. I suppose he didn't see why you would think there could be any advantage to yourself in doing so, if their death was truly your motivation."

"How ironic," he drawled. "The werewolf criticizing Albus Dumbledore for being too trusting. I shall enjoy making him eat those words, at least."

Minerva sank into the armchair slowly, gripping the head of her cane with both hands and tightening her lips. "No," she said. "Sadly, you won't. Not right away, at least. I daresay you will have the opportunity someday, but Remus will not be eating words or anything else in this world again."

Severus stared at her; her eyes were shining unnaturally behind her spectacles. He could see tears welling up in them, and he clenched his hands into fists. "I don't believe you," he said flatly. He wasn't fond of Remus Lupin by any stretch of the imagination. But one couldn't spend as much time working on another's behalf as he had done on Lupin's and not feel some bond with them. He wondered how many hours he had spent brewing Wolfsbane potion over the years, and how many days they would add up to. He would not be doing it again, he realized.

"Remus and Nymphadora both. I thought someone would have told you."

He closed his eyes. Lupin's pale, tired face was hovering in his thoughts. He'd heard a rumor that Remus and Tonks had been expecting, and he wondered what had become of the child. Not that he cared, he reminded himself. "I've only seen Poppy and Miss Granger. Neither of them saw fit to volunteer any information, and I chose not to ask."

Minerva regarded him quietly. "I didn't come to fill you in on details of the battle, Severus. That conversation will have to wait for another time. Now that you're awake, you are once again the acting Headmaster. There's administrative business we need to discuss."

"You enjoy being the bearer of bad news, don't you?"

She grimaced. "Not funny, Severus. Do try not to be tasteless in your humor. Now then—you probably don't know, as you seem to be in the dark about many current events, but the school has been simply overrun."

He raised his eyebrows, idly stroking his cheek with one fingertip. "Overrun?"

"Nobody was willing to leave after the battle," she said helplessly. "The castle needed a great many repairs, and everyone wanted to help. Nearly all of the students are here, along with their families, members of the Order, and a number of Ministry officials. They've pitched tents all over the grounds; people have been sleeping in the Great Hall. I've even found one or two sleeping in the hallways at night."

"Gryffindors, no doubt," he sneered. "Ever mindful of nothing but their own convenience. I hope you docked house points."

"It was Draco Malfoy, if you must know, and no, I did not dock house points. The boy's parents are in Azkaban, his aunt is dead, and so is his cousin, who was possibly the only respectable family member he had."

"So you excuse him for making a nuisance of himself?" He snapped. "You do him no favors by coddling him, Minerva."

"He sat down to rest and fell asleep inadvertently. He's been working tirelessly to restore the castle," she said simply. "And if he wishes to do something to atone for his previous actions, I will not punish him for it. Draco is not the point, Severus. We need to decide how much longer the castle will be playing host to all of these people."

Severus sighed and steepled his fingers, looking down at them pensively. Minerva watched him with the same intense stare she affected while in her animagus form. Eventually, he spoke:

"Although I understand the desire to linger, I do not think it is advisable for Hogwarts to continue to house non-faculty members after the official end of term. There is work to be done outside of Hogwarts as well, and people need to return to their homes. There is rebuilding to be done there as well as here."

She nodded. "That is my opinion as well. As to the upcoming academic year—"

"—We will be allowing any current seventh year students who wish to do so the opportunity to return to school and repeat the year in preparation for NEWTs," he interrupted smoothly. "Muggle-born students and those who were forced to leave midway through the year will require remedial study before they will be able to sit exams. I believe that the faculty will be willing to accommodate their needs."

"I see you've already given the matter some thought," she said, looking pleased.

He shrugged. "I had advance notice of the Dark Lord's intentions as to the staging point for his final confrontation with Harry Potter."

"And you made plans for the running of the school in the event that he was overthrown?"

Affecting a bored expression, he nodded. "You will find a detailed report in a secret compartment located in the wall of my office. The portraits can direct you." He raised one eyebrow, and the amused glint returned to his eye. "Although you have a great many gifts, Minerva, I am aware that you dislike the level of strategic thinking that sometimes comes into play when managing school affairs. It was to be a parting gift in the instance of my demise at the hands of the Dark Lord, or" (he added, almost as an afterthought) "the Ministry."

She gave him a half-incredulous, half-admiring look. He smiled thinly and continued:

"I anticipate that many students will elect to return. I also believe that many of the younger students will require remedial work as well, to say nothing of Muggle-born students, who will naturally be a year behind their age group. This is another reason I believe it would be wise to request that all people except for the faculty leave the school by the end of the week. There will be a great deal of work to be done before the first of September. It may prove logistically complicated to accommodate not only the varied academic needs of the younger students, but the extra burden of an entire year's worth of students who will be returning instead of graduating. As I'm sure you have grasped by now, the upcoming seventh year class will essentially have doubled in number."

He paused for breath, and she gestured for him to continue.

"I would say that the best course of action will be to hold full examinations in all subjects at all levels, and determine class placement based on proficiency rather than age. This will ensure that students will not have gaps in their knowledge as a result of the unfortunate interruptions to their academic schedule this year. I also believe a number of them have continued to study on their own. For those most…closely involved with recent events, I would like to provide individual tutoring to ensure that they are not re-taking classes unnecessarily."

She smiled. "I assume that by that you mean Hermione Granger."

He inclined his head slightly. "I do. However, she is not the only one. I happen to know for a fact that Neville Longbottom, for instance, continued to study several subjects on his own even after it was no longer safe for him to attend classes. And of course, there will be students from Ravenclaw who felt a need to continue with studies outside of class as well."

"It's good to know the students are in such capable hands," she said. For the first time in his life, Severus watched Minerva McGonagall relax her customary stiff posture and lean back into the armchair. She, like Hermione Granger, looked exhausted. Unlike Granger, however, she did not look defeated in the slightest. He thought she looked rather exhilarated, in fact. He didn't blame her.

However, he was not a man to keep silent merely because others are comfortable, and he had something unpleasant to say.

He cleared his throat. "I do not intend to remain Headmaster."

She tightened her lips again, until they were nothing but a thin line and asked, "is it too much to hope that you might explain why not?"

"I…do not feel that I am worthy of the position, Minerva. Please do not interrupt me with your platitudes. I am not interested in hearing them. I will happily stay on in the position of Deputy Headmaster, either as advisor to you or to someone else. I will even continue to be responsible for many of the Headmaster's usual administrative duties if necessary, but I am not willing to be the executive officer over the entire school any longer. Hogwarts has suffered terrible things this year, many of them at my hands, however involuntarily.

"No matter how much publicity my alliance with the Order receives, and no matter how happy the Board may be to keep me at the post, I do not think that the student body will be very accepting of it. There will be a number of students this coming year that are emotionally fragile and quite mistrustful of me. I do not like having to answer for the feelings of young children more than I must, especially not in circumstances like these. I would prefer to teach, not to govern. I need less responsibility, Minerva, not more."

He looked away from her. It had cost him something emotionally to admit to being so feared by his students. Although he had spent years cultivating that fear, he had also spent years cultivating a deep sense of responsibility for the school and its inhabitants. His failure to protect them adequately (in his own eyes) disqualified him for the position he had so long dreamed of holding. He had spent many years nursing his ambition to become Headmaster after Albus Dumbledore, only to have it ruined by the machinations of two wizards who viewed him merely as a pawn in their game. He scowled.

"The Board will want to appoint me permanently," she said, looking as though she'd just tasted something very unpleasant. "I suppose I will have no choice. There aren't any other serious candidates to be found at the moment. Everybody worthwhile has already been recruited by Kingsley Shacklebolt to work at the Ministry."

"I recommend that you offer to serve as interim Headmistress for one year in order to allow the Board to interview potential replacements. As I have already said, you will have my full cooperation and assistance with anything you need." He reached up, rubbing his hand slowly over the livid scars that ran down the side of his neck. "Albus will be happy to have your company. I believe he found me too reticent a companion."

0 0 0

Minerva stayed for nearly two more hours discussing plans for the upcoming year and then, with many pauses to wipe her eyes, listing the names of the dead. After she left, Severus lay back against his pillows, looking up at the ceiling as his mind tallied up the numbers of students they had lost. It totaled over fifty, if he was counting correctly, including several that were underage. Gryffindors, naturally.

If he were to be intellectually honest, however, he had to admit that he had lost many students from his own house merely through attrition. It was hard to bear. Although Lily's death had wrought in him, over time, a deep change of heart, his position as a spy and his own stubbornness both had worked against him when it came to instilling positive values in the Slytherins entrusted to his care. From the first day of his employment as Potions Master of Hogwarts, Severus had been forced to play politics with people that he hated in order to maintain a position in society that he loathed. But he had promised Albus that he would do anything, and that he would work to ensure Lily's sacrifice meant something. So he had agreed to continue associating with the other Death Eaters, making regular reports on their movements to the Headmaster. He assumed that Albus had passed some of those on to the Ministry, but he didn't really know. He had never questioned it.

"Mine is not to reason why," he murmured, once more reaching his hand up to touch his neck. He had given up his right to question Albus Dumbledore's orders the day he'd betrayed Lily and her family.

Glancing at Poppy's office to ensure that her door was closed, and feeling like a guilty schoolboy for doing so, he picked up Potter's photo album again and flipped it open. There was Lily, gazing up into his eyes with the quirky smile that had never once failed to make his heart skip a beat.

Until now. He felt oddly detached as he looked at it, waiting for a jolt of emotion that never came.

He stared down at the picture, absently caressing his scar with two fingers. She was wearing a flimsy white cotton dress that had made his stomach quiver nervously every time he saw her in it. It was the first time he remembered her looking like a woman and not a little girl. She'd worn it on the Hogwarts express at the beginning of their fourth year. He'd taken that photo, too, with a camera her parents had given her. He wondered if her son had any idea how many of the photos he'd obviously treasured had been taken by the man responsible for her death.

He reached the last page of the album. It held only one photo, larger than the rest: a group photo containing all the members of the Order just weeks before Lily and James Potter had been murdered. He studied it quietly. Nearly everybody in the picture was dead, he realized—martyrs for the cause they had pledged their lives to so long ago. There was little love lost between himself and the other Order members, but as he watched them, smiling, jostling each other, and exchanging sly, friendly glances, he felt that he had been left behind somehow. He didn't like it.

As he looked, the faces of Frank and Alice Longbottom caught his eye. It had been so long since he'd seen them that he'd never realized how much Neville Longbottom favored his parents. It struck him as odd that he could forget that so easily, when he was incapable of looking at Harry without noticing the boy's resemblance to Lily and James. He had spent so many years hating both of them—Harry because his mother had died to save him from Voldemort and Neville because his mother had _not_.

For the first time, it struck him how horribly twisted it was to hate a child because Voldemort had chosen not to kill him. Alice Longbottom's son fulfilled the criteria of the prophecy just as well as Lily Potter's, and Severus had spent years wishing bitterly that the Dark Lord had gone after the pureblood instead of the half-blood.

He moved his gaze to Lily, and was suddenly glad she had been gone for so long. He couldn't imagine having to endure her disappointment in him when she discovered his selfishness.

"Yet again, I failed you," he said softly, waiting for the familiar sense of regret and self-hatred to overwhelm him.

But somehow as he lay there, gazing at her and her husband, the thought of Lily did not cause the stab of guilt that he had come to associate with it. Instead, he remembered her with pleasure, thinking back over the years of their friendship. It was such a novel experience that he allowed his mind to wander, allowed himself to turn back through the album again and stare at each picture in turn. Even the thought of her death didn't cause the horrible sense of criminality in him that he was accustomed to. He merely felt regret, and a dim sadness at her loss.

What was it she had said to him as he had hovered between death and life? _"You have more than atoned for any wrong you ever did me…I release you from debt."_

He didn't know how it had come about. He wasn't at all convinced that his conversation with Lily had been real. But all the same, as he perused the photographs that told the story of her short life, he began to realize, in a very small way, a very huge truth.

Severus Snape, for the first time since he was fifteen years old, felt free.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Whew! Two chapters in one night took a lot out of me, but I couldn't get to sleep until this was done. 

I feel like I've just reached the end of a very long prologue and now I can start getting on with the rest of the story. I suppose I shouldn't complain, though. It's hard for a man like Snape to move on from 18 years worth of guilt.

For those of you who are going to ask how he can move so suddenly from loving Lily and being all grumpy and obsessed by it to being just sort of ok with the past: In my mind, Snape's been dealing with sort of the opposite of a life debt. He's owed something to them in order to make up for the fact that he was responsible for their death. It meant that he was magically bound to Lily (and James and Dumbledore) as a result of his actions. When she released him, it meant that he could finally have the cumulative good effects of all those years of time and distance and mourning because there wasn't magic blocking that process anymore.

I think he's probably pretty confused about it, though.


	10. Examinations

**DISCLAIMER**: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Examinations**

* * *

Having relocated from Hogwarts to Grimmauld Place, Harry and Hermione threw all of their energy into making the potion. Ron traveled regularly back and forth between Grimmauld Place and The Burrow, lending a hand where he could and keeping them company.

He had arrived to stay for the weekend, and was helping himself to a generous portion of roast chicken in the kitchen when Neville stepped through the Floo, brushing a considerable amount of soot off of himself as he did so.

"Neville!" cried Hermione, rushing over to give him a hug. "Harry didn't tell me you'd be here this weekend!"

"I only just decided on it this morning. I've got your bindweed and eyebright. Sorry it took so long. Bindweed grows everywhere, but you can't harvest eyebright until the end of July at the earliest, or it won't work in a potion." He held up a grubby-looking bundle of fabric, through which a few green shoots and tangled-looking white roots were poking. "We've got to hurry, though. I need to extract the juice as soon as possible or it won't be as effective. Have you got a mortar and pestle?"

Hermione went to fetch it for him, and Ron gave Neville a bemused look. "I thought you said you were no good at Potions, Neville."

"This isn't Potions. This is Herbology."

"Since when does preparing ingredients for a potion not qualify as Potions?"

Hermione returned with a large stone mortar and pestle, setting them on the kitchen table and giving Ron a scathing look. "Don't push it, Ron, you'll make him nervous," she hissed out of the side of her mouth, so Neville couldn't hear. She suspected that he could be perfectly competent, if he was just left alone. Ron wasn't helping.

Neville set the package down on the table and opened it. It contained perfect specimens of both plants, and he tenderly picked up the eyebright, beginning to strip the leaves and flowers off the stem. He handled the plant delicately; the way he moved was almost graceful.

Once he had stripped the leaves and flowers, he scooped them into a pile and dropped it into the mortar. Seizing the pestle, he immediately began to pulverize them. A surprising amount of liquid quickly gathered in the bowl as he worked. Hermione picked up _The Potioneer's Portfolio._ It fell open to the page containing the Verus Ortus recipe, and she scanned the page quickly.

"We don't need much, only seven drops." Neville set the pestle down and they peered at the clear, greenish liquid his efforts had produced. "That'll be more than enough," she said, pulling out her wand and decanting the liquid into a small vial.

"You'll need to dry the bindweed for a few days before the roots will be ready to crush," said Neville, sitting down.

Ron finished polishing off his last piece of chicken and set the bone down on the edge of his plate, which Kreacher immediately seized and began to wash. "Well done, Neville," Ron said. "Hermione wasn't kidding, you really are brilliant at this sort of thing. I don't know what you like about it, but I'm sure glad you do."

Neville grinned. "Thanks. Now—I think it's about time you tell me exactly what you're trying to brew, isn't it?"

Before they could answer, Harry burst into the kitchen, carrying four letters and looking harried. "An owl's just arrived," he said, holding up the letters. "Snape's going to be here in an hour."

"What?" cried Ron, Neville and Hermione in unison. Harry dropped three of the envelopes (unopened) on the table. They were practically identical, all bearing the Hogwarts seal and addressed to the three of them at The Kitchen, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London. Harry's was the same, and he had pulled a sheet of parchment from it, crumpling it in his hand as he read aloud.

"_Dear Mr. Potter: The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is delighted to be welcoming you as a student once more. It has come to our attention that, due to the unfortunate events of the past academic year, many students have experienced a disruption in the regular progression of their studies. As such, all students will be required to undergo comprehensive aptitude tests before textbooks and class schedules are assigned._"

Harry paused to catch his breath. Ron and Neville were both beginning to look slightly green, and Hermione had clasped her hands, eyes wide.

"_Prospective seventh year students will be examined by Professor Severus Snape. You may expect his arrival at precisely 3:30 p.m. on August 1._" He threw the letter down on the table. "Kind of them to give us a bit of advance warning," he groused. "I haven't studied in over a year, what am I supposed to do in an exam?"

"Obviously they want to get an idea of how much you actually _know_," said Hermione sharply. She was pale, and her hands were still clasped together tightly. "I don't know _what_ I'm going to do. What time is it, Harry?" she glanced at the clock and gave a little shriek. "Oh my God, it's already past two. What do you think he'll examine us on? They said _comprehensive_—do you think he'll expect us to have already read through the NEWT-level material?"

Neville looked like he was going to be sick. Ron had his head buried in his hands. "Oh, Harry!" Hermione hissed suddenly. "We've got to clear all this up before he gets here!"

Ron's head snapped up and Harry stared at Hermione, and then at the potion ingredients scattered throughout the kitchen. "I didn't even think of that. Quick, everyone, help me get this put out of the way. We can stow it in Sirius' room. Surely he isn't going to want to go into any of the bedrooms."

By the time they had any incriminating evidence put away and had cleared up the last of their lunch dishes, it was twenty minutes past three. Hermione sat back down at the kitchen table with a grim look and began pulling textbooks from her small bag, barricading herself in behind a pile of them and muttering distractedly. Neville, too, sat down, biting his fingernails. Occasionally he glanced at Hermione and her growing pile of books, looking a little more nauseated each time.

At three twenty-nine, a loud knock sounded on the door. Hermione jumped, looking up from her books with wide, frightened eyes. Neville whimpered softly, and Ron backed quickly into a corner. "Kreacher," said Harry in a choked voice, "would you answer the door please?"

"Kreacher is happy to do master Harry's bidding," said the house-elf with a delighted simper, and he ran down the long hallway to open the door. They listened in silence as the heavy door swung open and Professor Snape stepped over the threshold. Harry and Hermione had, with Arthur Weasley's help, gotten rid of the dusty specter of Albus Dumbledore that had been haunting the front hallway. She suddenly felt a wild sense of regret over doing so as Snape walked, unimpeded, towards the kitchen.

The kitchen door opened again, and Kreacher scurried in, closely followed by Professor Snape.

Hermione had not spoken to him since their confrontation in the hospital wing, and over a month had passed. He was still thiner than usual, but otherwise he looked exactly as he always did. His hair, parted down the middle, hung heavily on either side of his face, and his black eyes glinted with malicious pleasure as he observed their looks of apprehension.

He produced a sheaf of parchment and glanced down at it, then slowly looked up and studied each of them in turn. "Longbottom," he said with a sneer. "You first. I'd prefer to have the worst over with as soon as possible. Although—" He raised one eyebrow, looking from Neville to Ron and then to Harry, his lip curling nastily—"_worst_ is certainly a very relative term in this instance."

Neville stood up. His face was paper white and his hands were shaking visibly as he pulled his wand from the sleeve of his robes. "I'm r-ready, sir," he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Potter," Snape said brusquely, "I will require the use of a room. I believe the library should prove adequate."

"Oh, right," said Harry. "Sure. You remember how to get there?"

Snape sneered disdainfully, his eyes sweeping the kitchen with dislike. It had improved vastly since Harry had won Kreacher over, but clearly not enough to please the Potions master. "Indeed," he said maliciously. "No need to direct me, Potter. Longbottom," he snapped. "Say goodbye to your friends. You won't be allowed to see them again until I've examined everyone in turn. I wouldn't want anybody cheating."

"Good luck, Neville," Hermione whispered bracingly. He didn't seem to hear her.

When Snape and Neville had left, she pushed a pile of books over towards Harry and Ron. "You're both bigger idiots than I thought if you don't study while you can," she scolded, and immediately buried herself in _Numerology and Gramatica_.

An hour passed before Kreacher arrived and informed Ron that Snape was waiting for him in the library. Another hour passed, and Harry went next. Hermione forced herself to stop and make a cup of tea before she studied any more. She put the kettle on the stove and then grabbed another book, leaning against the counter and reading it intently while she waited for the water to boil.

0 0 0

Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping that the ache there would dissipate before it became any more severe. He should have known better than to attempt these examinations when he had no analgesic potions on his person. Longbottom had muddled through the exam with surprisingly satisfactory results, all things considered, but the boy was so anxious that it seemed impossible for him to sit still and not fidget. Merely being in the same room with him was exhausting, and Severus had not yet regained his former energy.

Weasley had not been much better. In some distant part of his mind, Severus was glad to know that he had not lost his powers of intimidation. However, as his head began to throb painfully, he found himself wishing that they did not find him _quite_ as frightening as they seemed to do.

"Weasley, you have faced Death Eaters far worse than I and, I am told, acquitted yourself well enough to not be entirely ashamed," he finally snarled. "Show a little backbone. It's an exam, not a torture session."

Ron had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like '_says you_,' but it was too indistinct for Severus to be sure. Still, he straightened up a little and managed to answer the rest of the exam questions without too much cringing. By the time he'd demonstrated competence with the _aguamenti_ charm and transfigured a book into a tortoise (albeit a rather flat, square one), he was practically acting confident.

Severus had dismissed him and sent Kreacher to fetch Harry. He was not looking forward to the next examination. It would be his first meeting with the boy since the night of the battle. He suspected that Harry would have something sentimental to say, and he would have been in no mood for it even if his head had not been pounding.

The door opened and Harry walked in, wand in hand. He was standing very straight, and his tension was so obvious that even Longbottom would have picked up on it without effort. It didn't take a Legilimens to know that Harry was uncomfortable around him.

He picked up his sheaf of parchment once again, glancing at it with a bored expression. "Harry Potter," he said, infusing the name with all of his habitual venom. "Your performance in this examination will determine your class placement at Hogwarts this year. I note in your file that you had expressed the ambition to become an Auror. Is this still the case?" He lifted one eyebrow.

Harry hesitated. "I believe so, sir, yes," he said.

"In that case, I will be examining you in the subjects required for that discipline: Transfiguration, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Care of Magical Creatures. The examination will be primarily theoretical in nature, as the Board of Governors did not feel it was prudent to hold extended practical examinations off of school property."

"I'm ready," Harry said. Severus lifted his eyebrow.

"Indeed. We will begin, then. How many exceptions are there to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?"

Again, Harry hesitated for a moment. "Five."

"Explain the nature of the exceptions and name three of them."

"Exceptions to Gamp's law are—well, they're things that can't be magically created from nothing."

"An acceptable, if clumsy explanation. Three of the five, Potter."

"Er… food is definitely one. And love. And—" Harry screwed up his face. "Human life?"

"Are you asking, Potter, or are you providing me with an answer?"

The boy's face went red. "That's my answer, sir. Food, love, and life are three things that can't be created ex nihilo by magic."

Snape scowled and scratched a check mark beside the question on Harry's examination sheet. "Explain the theory behind the Animagus transformation and how it is affected by external stimuli such as the Polyjuice potion," he snapped.

Harry blanched. He clearly had not revisited Minerva's lectures on human transfiguration since leaving Hogwarts. Severus smiled maliciously. "Come now, Potter. Surely you of all people ought to be acquainted with the mechanics of that particular transfiguration."

It was satisfying to watch the boy sweat, although perhaps not quite as satisfying as it had been in the past. He scowled as Harry continued to fidget in silence.

"Potter, if you can't answer the question, say so," he bit out. "I am not in a humor to make any allowances for you, and we have a great deal of material to cover."

"The… the fundamental theory is no different from standard transfigurations. Becoming an Animagus is so much more difficult because it is much harder to exercise full control over your own body than over another object. Self-control is the hardest type of control to wield. The effect of most potions is not altered unless they are administered while the witch or wizard is in their Animagus form, when the results are unpredictable and often dangerous." Harry burst out, looking surprised at his own ability to pull the information from his memory.

Severus scowled, making another check on the parchment.

Nearly an hour later, they reached the final question. Severus drew a horizontal line beside it to mark half-credit and then set the parchment down. "As you well know, I do not give partial credit on my examinations. However," he said, with some distaste. "The school has elected to do so, to your great good fortune. You will receive an owl within one week, notifying you as to your class placement and textbook assignments. Wand away. You may go"

Harry obediently returned his wand to his back pocket and turned to leave. He'd reached the door before Severus stopped him. "Potter!" He said abruptly.

Harry turned, surprised. "Yes, sir?"

"You left this in my possession and I did not have an opportunity to return it to you." Severus produced Harry's photo album from within his robes and held it out to him gingerly, looking as though he preferred not to be in direct contact with it any longer than he had to.

"Oh. I see. Did you…did you enjoy it, sir?"

"Mr. Potter, I will say this once and once only. My personal life is not your concern beyond what I choose to reveal to you in my own time. I will not tolerate questions about it. I showed you only what I felt was necessary to explain my loyalties when it became clear that I had no other choice. Do not make the foolish mistake of interpreting it as a sign that you may take liberties with me that you previously could not." His voice was icy cold, and he thrust the book at Harry again, glaring fiercely.

Harry took the book in both hands, not looking at it. Instead, his eyes were locked on his professor. His face looked strange, having an expression that Severus did not feel equal to interpreting. He considered using Legilimency to discover its cause, but before he could, Potter spoke:

"Sir, I wonder if I could… well, could I ask you a question?"

He narrowed his eyes, doubting that he was going to like whatever the question was. "Very well."

"Well, Professor—" Harry suddenly looked infinitely more nervous than he had at any point during his examinations. Every word seemed to be costing him a great effort. "Someone said to me…that is, someone suggested… that maybe… youmightbemyfather," he gasped, closing his eyes tightly. He seemed shocked by his own daring.

The words had spilled out in a jumble, but Severus had spent many years learning how to interpret the mumbles of embarrassed and frightened students. He paled.. He should have known, he realized, that rumors like that would begin to surface. Hogwarts was, in his estimation, a disgusting hotbed of hormones and emotions, and was a source for all manner of ridiculous 'romantic' ideas borne of those. But for those rumors to come from Lily's son...

"Potter," he hissed, making no effort to disguise his rage. "I believe I made it very clear to you a moment ago that I _will not tolerate your prying into my personal life_."

"Well it's… it's just that it's my life too, sir, and if you and my mum…"

"ENOUGH!" Roared Severus, drawing his wand and pointing it directly between Harry's eyes, righteous indignation burning through him such as he had rarely known before. He lowered his voice until it was no more than a deadly hiss. "You, Potter, are a _fool_. Get out of my sight."

Harry fled.

0 0 0

Hermione's turn to be examined had finally arrived. She carefully closed her textbooks, picked up her wand, and followed Kreacher to the library, her heart thudding uncomfortably. She had always experienced horrible test anxiety, and the past year had done little to increase her self-confidence. In spite of their ultimate success, their blunders in Godric's Hollow and at the Lovegood residence had shaken her deeply.

Professor Snape was standing at the window, his back turned to her. Although he had indeed grown very thin, his body seemed to project a wiry strength that she imagined would make him a force to be reckoned with. His wand was out and he was holding it behind his back, clutching it so tightly that his knuckles had gone completely bloodless.

"S-sir?" She asked hesitantly.

He immediately spun around, and she had to make a serious effort not to recoil. His face was twisted with rage and she wondered what idiotic thing Harry had done to cause it.

"Miss Granger," he said softly. She didn't move. She knew that tone of voice, and it was dangerous. "_Sit_."

"Your performance in this examination will determine your class placement at Hogwarts this year. I note that you received OWLs in every subject except for Divination. Which of these are you planning to pursue at NEWT level?" The words were rote, and he had obviously said variations on them a dozen times already to other students. His tone of voice, however, was frighteningly cold, even for him. She suddenly wondered if his anger was directed not at Harry but at _her_. He had been so unpleasant in the hospital wing and she hadn't seen him since. Was she foolish to expect that his irrational anger with her would have worn off?

"I—had hoped to continue with all of them," she whispered, struggling to overcome her sudden fear of him.

"I had hoped, Miss Granger, that by now you would have developed sufficient maturity to counteract your pathological need to show off," he sneered. "Clearly my optimism was ill-judged. Wand on the table, _now_."

She obeyed and he glared down at her. "I know you enjoy being a know-it-all, Miss Granger, but I have no desire to waste my time listening to your attempts at self-aggrandizement today. Keep your answers brief. Summarize Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, including the nature and number of its exceptions."

0 0 0

They made it halfway through the examination before she began crying.

He stopped halfway through a question, utterly nonplussed as the girl he considered almost endlessly resilient suddenly dissolved into hysterical tears in front of him. He felt a guilty prod from his conscience and knew that he'd been taking his anger with Harry out on her. He'd stopped paying attention to what he was saying as his mind wandered, seething over Harry's insinuation that his mother might have been an unfaithful woman. What had he said? He wasn't sure, but he knew it was something unpleasant.

"Miss Granger—" He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Other than Minerva McGonagall and Narcissa Malfoy, he rarely dealt with women, and neither of them was the crying type. His anger changed into discomfort as quickly and as thoroughly as if Minerva had transfigured it herself.

"I'm s-sorry, Professor Snape," she sobbed. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I c-can't do it."

"Miss Granger, I hope you are not trying to suggest that you are intellectually incapable of answering these questions. You will not find me a sympathetic listener if that is the case."

His voice, if not his words, seemed to call her back to herself and she wiped her eyes quickly. Belatedly, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to her. The disbelieving look she gave him as she accepted it made him feel, if it was possible, even more uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid I owe you an apology," he muttered, attempting to say the words with some semblance of good grace. "I allowed my…displeasure…over a situation entirely unrelated to you to get the better of me, and I am afraid I have been taking it out on you. I see it has distressed you, and I beg your pardon"

Her mouth fell open slightly. She was staring at him as though he had flobberworms crawling out of his ears. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, wishing that she would say something. He found it horribly ironic that, given the many times he had hoped fervently for her to be silent, he now hoped just as fervently that she would speak.

"I—forgive you, sir?" She whispered. He studied her face carefully. Apparently his apology had shocked her out of her hysteria—in which case, he decided, it had done exactly what it ought.

"Do you think you will be able to continue with the examination at this point, Miss Granger, or do you require a rest?" He asked sardonically, sitting down for the first time since she had entered the room and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I think I can continue, sir." She seemed to sit a little straighter and he nodded in satisfaction.

"I expected no less of you, Miss Granger. Now then: describe the appearance and effect of the potion known as Amortentia."

To his surprise, she blushed. "Amortentia is generally considered to be the most potent love potion in the world, sir. It is most recognizable by its mother-of-pearl sheen and the fact that its steam rises in spirals. Its true smell is unknown, because no two people smell the same thing."

"Indeed," he said. Something about her face made him think that she'd smelled it before. _Of course_, he thought dryly, _Slughorn always did enjoy putting on a show_. He wondered what she'd smelled, and then wondered what on earth could have induced him to ask such a question about a student, even if it were only in his mind. He jerked his head irritably, as though to shake the thought away. She flinched, and he sighed. He had expected to deal with many emotionally vulnerable students in the upcoming year, but somehow he had not anticipated that Hermione Granger would be one of them.

His headache was definitely growing worse. Grumpily, he asked himself why insults that she had heard from him a thousand times had suddenly affected her so much.

He couldn't come up with an answer he liked. Deciding to ignore it, he repeated the last question.

0 0 0

Due to the sheer number of subjects they needed to cover, it took nearly another hour to complete her examination. But he had finally put down the sheet of parchment on which he was marking her scores, and said: "Miss Granger, you will receive an owl within one week, notifying you as to your class placement and textbook assignments."

She slumped in relief. Some part of her had been expecting and fearing that he would tell her that her test results had disqualified her from returning to school. _Not rational, Hermione Granger_, she told herself in disgust. _Grow up_.

She waited, but her dismissal didn't come. Eventually, she chanced a look at him. His eyes were locked on her face, and he looked deeply thoughtful. He stood that way for so long that eventually she wondered if maybe she was expected to simply get up and leave without a dismissal.

Finally, he spoke: "Miss Granger, before you go, I believe I owe you one more apology." He sounded horribly uncomfortable. Unsure of what to say, she bit her lower lip, chewing on it and waiting for him to continue.

"More appropriately, I believe I owe you my… gratitude." His discomfort seemed to grow even more. "Although I cannot pretend to enjoy being in your debt, I have been made aware that you played a role in my recovery. You have my appreciation," he said stiffly.

She stared up at him in complete surprise. "You're welcome, but I hardly did anything, sir. I only made sure that someone brought you back to Madame Pomfrey."

He appeared to be about to say something else, but then thought better of it. He gave her a long, piercing look, and she wondered uncomfortably if he was using Legilimency on her. She had no idea what it would feel like, but after Harry's horror stories, she didn't entirely trust him to stay out of her mind.

"You may go, Miss Granger." She stood up and slipped her wand into her sleeve. Not looking at her, he spoke again: "In case you are wondering, you will need to purchase the second volume of _Confronting the Faceless_. I expect my seventh-year students to be familiar with the text at the beginning of class.

She felt her jaw drop. "I—sir? I didn't think…I thought I'm not supposed to know exam results until next week. Are you saying I placed in your class?"

He merely raised one eyebrow. "I believe I told you that you were free to go."

He sat unmoving for several long moments after she left, lost in thought.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Once again, a HUGE thank you to everybody who's left reviews. I appreciate it a lot! 


	11. Finding Petunia

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Finding Petunia**

* * *

Hermione stood in the doorway of Sirius' bedroom, staring at Harry in disbelief. "You said _what_?" 

Harry was lying face down on Sirius' old bed, his head buried in a pillow. She looked to Ron, who shrugged helplessly. Neville's round face bore a look of utter shock.

"Harry," Hermione said, as patiently as she could. "Please tell me what you actually said. I'm not sure I can believe what Ronald is telling me."

"I asked him if he was my father," said Harry's very muffled voice through the pillow.

"Harry Potter, you have had your truly stupid moments over the years, but this really tops them." Shaking her head, she walked over to the bed and sat down beside him, laying her palm on his shoulder. "What on earth were you thinking?"

He rolled over, staring up at the ceiling disconsolately. "I don't know. Something just came over me all of a sudden. I had to know, and he was right there, and I thought, well, if there's a chance, nobody would know it better than him, right?"

Ron shook his head in disbelief. "You're mental. You are absolutely mental." Harry covered his eyes with one arm and groaned. "Brave, though," he added with grudging admiration.

"Are you telling me that you honestly think Snape could be your father, Harry?" Asked Neville, speaking for what was obviously the first time since Harry's revelation. "And you _asked_ him? Have you gone suicidal or something? I mean, it must be an awful prospect, but even I think developing a death wish over it is taking it a bit far."

Harry sat up quickly. "He didn't say no, you know. He still could be. I don't blame him for getting angry, having the question sprung on him like that. Maybe he had a guilty conscience."

"Harry…" Hermione said gently. "I doubt that."

"No!" He insisted. "I'm serious. He still could be. I bet he was just taken by surprise. You said yourself that even if he knew he was my dad, it wouldn't change anything, right?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"So I shouldn't be surprised that he acted just like normal Snape. We're still going ahead with the plan. I need to know for sure, Hermione."

"Is that what you're brewing a potion for?" Neville's eyebrows were raised so high that they practically disappeared into his hair. "Blimey, Harry, I don't blame you for not wanting to tell me. I wouldn't want to tell _anyone_ if I thought Snape could be my father."

"Too right," said Ron fervently.

"Don't be silly. He's a war hero!" Said Hermione briskly. "That's something to be proud of."

"Yeah," said Ron. "But he's still a git. How did the exam go, by the way? You were in there for ages."

"I had more subjects to cover, didn't I? It's getting late. Cheer up, Harry. What's done is done. If you want to keep on with the potion, you know we'll help you. Now let's stop thinking about it. I'm starving."

0 0 0

Hermione couldn't get to sleep.

She had successfully sidestepped the boys' questions about her exam, for which she was deeply thankful. She didn't want to admit to having lost her nerve so completely, and didn't know how on earth to explain Professor Snape's sudden—kindness? It was not a word she was accustomed to using when she thought of him, but she couldn't think of one more appropriate.

She didn't understand why his cruelty had affected her so strongly. He had always been cruel, and he hadn't said anything over the course of the exam that she hadn't heard from him a thousand times before. Somehow, though, this time had been different, and she couldn't begin to fathom why.

Thinking back over the two hours she'd spent with him, she sighed, turning over onto her side and staring into the darkness of her bedroom. Her door was open a crack and she could hear Ron snoring down the hall, but it didn't bother her; after so many months sharing the same tent, it was a comforting, familiar sound. In fact, she liked Ron much better when he was asleep and therefore incapable of saying stupid things.

Did she expect that because of his war hero status, his whole personality would suddenly change? She didn't think that she had, but she could come up with no other explanation for why his cutting words had surprised and hurt her so badly.

He'd said that he felt indebted to her. She wondered what that meant. After all, she had done so little, in her mind—nobody else knew that he'd taken a potion, and she had no idea how effective it would be in the long term. It only made sense to make sure that others understood and got him to Madame Pomfrey in time.

And then afterwards, when she'd sat with him for so many days…well, surely he didn't mean _that_. He hadn't exactly been thrilled when she dropped by again after he woke up. And she hadn't done anything but sit there, had she?

No, she had done nothing but sit there for hours every night, staring at his immobile face and hoping desperately that he would live. Somehow in her mind, his life had come to mean something significant, although she couldn't exactly say what it was, and she sensed that if he died, some important part of her would die as well. So she had kept an anxious vigil, all the while pretending that she was there merely to escape the rest of the inhabitants of the castle.

_Well, not _exactly _lying_, she decided. It had been a half-truth. The castle had been a constant reminder of their losses, their failures, and a victory made rather hollow by those things. But the Professor—as long as he was alive, he was for her a sign that the world was not entirely unjust.

She smiled wryly, turning again and trying to get comfortable in her bed. She couldn't imagine how shocked he would be to discover that anyone in the world could see his life that way.

0 0 0

A week later, three school owls arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. They landed on the kitchen windowsill, tapping insistently with their beaks on the glass pane.

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, jumping up from her seat and running to open the window. "They're _here_!"

The owls swooped into the kitchen, deposited the letters neatly on the table, and then swooped out again. Hermione caught Harry watching them sadly and knew he was thinking about Hedwig.

"Don't think about it, Harry," she said quickly, handing him his letter. "Open it and tell me what classes you're taking."

She picked her own letter up in trembling hands, breaking the seal and pulling the parchment from the envelope quickly. She thrust it at Ron, who took it with a look of confusion.

"Read it for me," she pleaded. "I can't do it."

He rolled his eyes. "Hermione, if you don't know by now that you're brilliant, it's time you had your head examined." She shot him a look. "All right! All right! I'll read it," he said hastily. Clearing his throat, he read: "_Dear Miss Granger: We regret to inform you that you've horribly failed every single examination. We aren't sure why you even got accepted to Hogwarts in the first place. Bugger off. Love, Snape._"

Harry snorted, tossing his own letter aside. "Don't be an ass, Ron. Tell her what it really says. I qualified for seventh-year classes in everything." He sounded surprised by his own achievement. "Hermione, take a deep breath. He was joking, your letter doesn't say anything remotely like that."

"Yeah," said Ron. "I'd thought the 'love' part would give it away. Hey!" She had snatched the letter from him and was reading it herself as, unnoticed by her, a smaller sheet of parchment fluttered down and landed on the table. Harry picked it up and read it.

"Hermione, you'll want to read this." He pushed it across the table to her. She set down the list of textbooks that she'd been perusing and looked at the parchment curiously.

Her faced changed as she read. "Private lessons?" She whispered. "With Professor Snape?"

Ron groaned. "I'm sorry, Hermione. That's a hard blow. What do you need private lessons for?"

Harry had picked up his own envelope again and peered inside of it. Sure enough, there was a similar piece of parchment awaiting him, and he scanned it quickly. "I've got lessons with McGonagall. You might want to open yours, mate," he said to Ron, passing him the last, still unopened, letter.

Breaking the seal, Ron pulled his class list from the envelope. Once again, there was a second piece of parchment, and he picked it up slowly. "Flitwick," he finally said, shrugging and dropping the parchment on the table. "I don't remember anybody ever saying anything about private lessons."

"Did you actually read it, Ron?" Asked Hermione, exasperated. "They're arranging private tutoring sessions for students who tested above sixth year so that they can cut class sizes. There's no point in having you attend the whole year's worth of classes if you already know a significant portion of the material. You must have done really well on the Charms portion of your testing."

"Snape must've been Confunded or something," Ron said, staring at the parchment in disbelief. "I didn't do _that_ well."

"Well done, Ron," said Hermione, ignoring him. "Now—obviously we're going to need to make a trip to Flourish & Blotts. When do you want to go?"

"I've been thinking about that," answered Harry. "I need to get in touch with Dedalus Diggle or Hestia Jones. If we're all making a trip into Diagon Alley anyway, we might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"Why them?" Asked Ron. "Diggle's a nutter."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "They're the ones who've been in charge of protecting Harry's aunt and uncle, Ron. They'll be using a Fidelius charm, I'm sure, and Harry won't be able to get to his aunt without going through them."

"I only hope they haven't spent enough time with the Dursleys to get suspicious if I say I want to visit them," said Harry grimly.

0 0 0

As it happened, Dedalus Diggle was so overjoyed to see Harry again—"_Harry Potter!_ It's _so_ wonderful to see you again! I was there, you know, at the final confrontation. I must say, you did us proud, my boy!"—That he didn't think to question why Harry might want to visit with his unpleasant Muggle relatives. It had been decided by the Order that, as long as there were still known Death Eaters on the loose, it was not yet safe for the Dursleys to return home. Their safe house was hidden by a Fidelius charm and Diggle, like Dumbledore had with Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, wrote the address down on a piece of paper rather than risk saying it out loud.

"Let them know that Hestia or I will be by at the end of the week to check in on them and change the password on the wards. Can you stay for tea? No? Well, perhaps next time. Until we meet again, Harry Potter!" And Diggle had shaken Harry's hand violently, nodding merrily at them out the window as they walked away.

"Like I said," Ron said as soon as they were out of earshot. "An absolute nutter."

"Oh hush," snapped Hermione. Ron looked hurt, and she sighed and looked away. She'd spent most of the summer scolding him or snapping at him in some way. She didn't really know why, only that since the battle when they'd fallen desperately into one another's arms, something had changed. He was a near-constant irritation. Things had changed so much, _she_ had changed so much, and Ron didn't seem to have kept up.

"Shut up," Harry grumbled, passing each of them the address for the safe house in turn. "Do either of you know where that is?"

Ron shook his head, but Hermione recognized it as being just a few blocks away from a cousin's house. "I haven't been there in over a year," she explained. "But I remember it quite well. I didn't realize they had your aunt and uncle living in London proper, but I suppose it makes sense. Keeps them nice and close to most of the Order members, and it's easier to blend in when there's all these people about."

"Do you remember it well enough to apparate there?"

"Oh, yes. Their back garden will be perfect. We'll need to use the invisibility cloak, though—they know I go to a specialized school in Scotland, but they don't know what for. I don't think they'd react well if I suddenly appeared in their garden out of nowhere."

"Invisibility cloak's not much good in the daytime if it needs to cover all three of us. Ron, didn't you say Bill's been teaching you how to do a disillusionment charm?"

"Well—yeah, but I don't—"

"Give it a try, and if it doesn't work, we have the cloak to fall back on."

Hesitantly, Ron raised his wand and tapped Harry on the head. Hermione watched Harry seemingly melt away into nothing, until he was almost completely invisible. The air shimmered a little when he moved, but if she hadn't been looking closely, she wouldn't have noticed. Looking pleased with himself, Ron charmed her next, and she felt the cold trickle down the back of her neck that told her it was working.

Once all three of them had been disillusioned, Harry groped around until he found Hermione, and slipped his arm into hers. "Alright, Ron, get Hermione's arm. Side-along apparition isn't ideal, but nobody else knows the spot so it'll have to do for now."

When she could feel Ron's arm locked tightly with hers, she took a deep breath, counted three, and turned, focusing intently on her cousin's back garden. They arrived with a loud _crack_, gasping softly as their lungs re-expanded.

"I never will understand why some people like doing that," muttered Harry, detaching himself from them. From the sound of his footsteps on the garden path, he was walking over to examine the gate. "This leads out to the street, but it's locked."

Hermione strode forward, wand out. "Come on, Harry. Are you a wizard, or aren't you? _Alohomora_."

The lock clicked open and the gate began to swing towards them. They slipped out into the street, closed and locked the gate, and then ducked behind a garbage bin to let Ron disillusion them.

"Let me see that address again, Harry," said Hermione. He passed it over to her, and she looked up at the street sign. "Alright. This way, then." Making sure her wand was tucked neatly into her sleeve, she set off down the sidewalk, Ron and Harry following close behind.

The house was small and nondescript, but it looked snug and comfortable by any standard. Harry said that in his opinion it was far nicer than the house on Privet Drive, and Hermione privately agreed. Speaking the password to disable the wards (which had been written on the parchment, below the address), they stepped forward and knocked on the door.

There was a screech and large crash, as though someone had dropped something heavy and probably made of glass, followed by footsteps that obviously belonged to someone quite large. Ron and Harry exchanged glances, and Harry opened his mouth to say something, when the door swung open to reveal Dudley Dursley, his fists raised threateningly.

"Who are you and what do you—Harry? What are you doing here?" He was staring so hard that his eyes seemed to bug out. The look didn't do much to improve his appearance, which reminded Hermione strongly of both Crabbe and Goyle.

"I need to see Aunt Petunia," said Harry. "How've you been?" Dudley stepped aside to give them room to enter, and Harry looked around the house curiously. "Seems like Dedalus and Hestia set you up pretty well."

"It's _brilliant_, Harry. We don't get to go out much, but when we do, they disguise us so we won't be recognized. You've never seen anything like it. One time, they gave mum _pink_ hair. She was fit to be tied." Dudley closed his eyes, a blissful expression on his face as he remembered it. "Dad loathes it all, of course, but I think it's amazing. I never knew you could do this kind of stuff. I thought it was all—well, I don't know what I thought it was, really."

"No worries," said Harry bemusedly. "It's not your fault."

"Sure it is," said Dudley gruffly, but he didn't press the point.

"This is Ron and Hermione," said Harry, waving a hand toward them. Dudley nodded.

"I remember them from the train station. And Ron came to our house once, didn't he?" Ron looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, his brothers had those sweets. Some prank. Shouldn't do things like that to people who don't know it can be fixed. Have a seat, will you? I'll go fetch mum. You startled her when you knocked on the door like that, Harry. Diggle doesn't come around till Fridays. She went and dropped a baking dish and she's cleaning it up." Harry and Ron were looking at Dudley like they'd never seen him before—apparently he was not behaving the way they'd expected him to.

"Oh!" Said Hermione, jumping up. "I'll repair it for her, it's a shame to let her throw it away when we could fix it.

Dudley looked uncertain, but he didn't stop her from following him through a narrow but well-lit hallway and into the kitchen, where Petunia Dursley was on her hands and knees, gathering up pieces of glass. She froze when they entered, looking up at Hermione.

"Harry's here with some friends. He says he needs to talk to you."

"Harry?" She repeated dumbly, still staring at Hermione, who had pulled her wand from her sleeve.

"Mrs. Dursley," said Hermione politely. "Won't you allow me to repair that for you? I'm terribly sorry we startled you."

Petunia looked like she would rather put each individual piece of glass in her mouth and swallow them one by one, but she merely stood back, averting her eyes while Hermione whispered "_Reparo_" and the pieces of glass flew back into their proper shape. She held it out to Petunia, who took it like it was a snake and placed it in the sink, clearly intending to scrub it mercilessly as soon as they were gone.

It was apparent that Dudley had been greatly enjoying his sojourn in a semi-magical world, and he was able to chat happily about it for the several minutes that it took his mother to compose herself. By the time Dudley was beginning to run out of subjects, she had brought in a tray with glasses of lemonade for them and a plate of sandwiches for Dudley. She set it down on the coffee table, and took a seat, eyeing Harry unhappily.

"What do you want?" She said, as soon as she knew she had his attention.

"I need to talk to you about my mother," said Harry. Long experience had prepared him for the unpleasantness of this interview, and he was trying with admirable success to sound both polite and adult when he spoke to her.

"What about her?" She snapped. "Surely you know plenty of people who can tell you anything you want to know."

"Not exactly," said Harry mildly. "You're the only person I know who was her sister." He drew a deep breath, and then said: "I don't blame you for being bitter, you know. It must have been horribly embarrassing when Dumbledore told you he couldn't let you in to Hogwarts; and then for my mum and Snape to find out. Well…I'd have been upset too."

She blanched. Dudley had opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione elbowed him sharply before he could, and he closed his mouth again, giving her a confused look. "How do you know about that?" whispered Aunt Petunia.

"Professor Snape told me."

"_Professor_ Snape? He's a _professor_ at that school you go to?" Her disbelief was obviously real, and Harry smiled wryly.

"Yeah, actually he was Headmaster last year, but he stepped down after the battle. I assume you've been filled in about that?"

She hesitated. "Yes, Hestia gave us an overview. Severus Snape actually became headmaster of that school?" Her eyes narrowed. "I can't imagine why he'd have been talking to _you_ about anything, especially not about me."

"He didn't talk to me about it, exactly. He—er—he showed me his memories."

Aunt Petunia looked startled and displeased. Hermione shifted nervously, but Harry met her eyes, telegraphing that this was well beyond good behavior for his aunt when it came to discussions about magic. Dudley was looking from Harry to his mother and back again, trying to figure out what on earth was going on. Petunia had clearly never explained to him the extent of her knowledge about the magical world.

"I find that even more difficult to believe," she said coldly. Harry shrugged.

"So do I, to be honest, but it's the truth."

"Why would he do that? I knew him…rather well, at one point," she admitted. "I would think he'd hate you. He hated your mother."

"He _loved_ my mum."

"It came to the same thing after she took up with that dreadful Potter boy." She stopped speaking and looked at him oddly. "He _told_ you he loved her?"

"He…showed me. In his memories."

"Why?" Her eyes seemed to be boring into him with a malicious curiosity that reminded Hermione irrepressibly of Rita Skeeter. She shuddered and glanced over at Ron, who seemed to be thinking the same thing.

"I don't know. It's why I wanted to come talk to you, really."

"You came here to talk to me about Severus?"

"Yeah," said Harry shortly.

"I don't know what you expect me to tell you," she hissed angrily. "I haven't spoken to him since I was twenty years old."

"Twenty?" Harry burst out in surprise, before he could stop himself. "I thought he stopped speaking to my mum in their OWL year. You weren't twenty then."

"It was their fifth year, I don't know what you mean by OWL," she snapped. "She came home and cried herself to sleep every night for weeks, and then that _Potter_ started hanging around. It was bad enough when Severus was there, but James Potter was even worse. Oh, my parents _loved_ him. He and that man—your godfather—made a complete nuisance of themselves, showing off and making asses of themselves. I don't know what she saw in them."

Harry looked surprised. When they'd discussed it beforehand, he had anticipated that it would be much more difficult to get information out of Petunia Dursley, but it seemed that, having been given the opportunity, she had things she wanted to get off her chest.

"Your mother was a fool not to take him back. I didn't like him either, but he was head and shoulders above James Potter. He came to see me shortly before Lily was married and asked me to give her something on her wedding night."

"What was it?"

She gave him a quelling look. "A letter. Don't ask me what was in it, I don't know. She didn't read it in front of me."

"Aunt Petunia," said Harry slowly. "I was wondering—do you think there's any chance that… well… that after she was married, my mum might have…"

She gave him a look that would have withered anyone with less determination than Harry had at that moment.

"I want to know if there's any possibility that he could be my biological father."

She hissed softly through her horsy teeth, staring at him. "What makes you think I would know something like that?"

"Well," said Harry desperately. "You were her _sister_."

"So?" She bit out angrily. "You think that means I would know if she was unfaithful to that man she married?"

Harry didn't respond. Petunia was glaring at him with an affronted look, and Hermione wished that Harry would just give it up and leave.

"If you want to know so badly, why don't you ask him?" She asked sourly.

He squirmed in his seat. "I already did," he muttered.

"And?"

"He threatened me."

She almost smiled. "That sounds like him." With a faint sigh, she clasped her hands on her lap, looking quite ready to be done with the whole question. "Speaking as… as her sister…I think it's unlikely, Harry." Harry had been looking down, but he raised his head slowly as she said his name. Hermione got the impression that Harry's aunt didn't usually use his first name when she addressed him. "I don't blame you for wanting to know," she said. "I'm aware that we didn't always treat you as well as we could have. You're just like your mother—you never fit in. I don't know what anybody expected me to do." Ron snorted, and it was his turn to be elbowed in the gut by Hermione.

"I have one more thing to ask you," said Harry quietly.

"Get on with it. Vernon's napping, but he'll be up soon and he'll be furious if he catches you here," she said, already looking like she regretted her last statement.

"There's a—a test that we can do. A paternity test. But I need something from you for it to work."

Petunia's gaze grew suspicious, but Harry continued before she had a chance to speak: "I need a sample of your blood. The test calls for some of my mum's, but obviously that's not possible. It's acceptable to substitute blood from a very close relative, but mine won't work."

A frigid silence descended over the room. Hermione carefully avoided meeting anyone's eye. Harry, on the other hand, was staring at his aunt, possibly taking advantage of the one way in which he most resembled his mother in order to appeal to his aunt.

"I don't want any part in this," she snapped angrily. Harry frowned.

"I'd have thought it would make you happy to find out if my mum cheated on my dad—if you hated him so much."

"Mrs. Dursley," interrupted Hermione. "It won't hurt in the slightest, and then we can be on our way. I'm sure Harry won't bother you any more after that."

Petunia looked at Hermione as though she had only just noticed that she was there. Two bright spots of color appeared in her cheeks. "I hardly think this is any of your business, young woman."

"Mum," Dudley said, looking at her as though he had never really seen her before. "Just give it to him. It wouldn't hurt you to be decent about it. He's been protecting us for a year. He saved my _life_."

"I haven't personally--" Harry said uncomfortably.

"Fine," Aunt Petunia snapped. "Get the blood and then get out of here before Vernon wakes up."

Harry glanced at Hermione, who promptly stood up and walked over to Petunia's seat. "If you could just let me see your arm for a moment," she asked politely, and held out her hand. Petunia looked like she was about to refuse, but Dudley shot her a look and she grudgingly extended her arm.

Hermione touched her wand to a vein, tracing a small line along it. A thin cut opened up where the wand tip had been, and blood began to well out of it. Hermione caught a few drops in a tiny vial, closed the wound, and cast a quick stasis spell over the bottle, slipping it into her pocket.

They all stood up.

"I don't think I need to show you to the door," hissed Petunia venomously to Harry. "Don't come asking me for any more favors. I've done more than enough for you."

Dudley _did_ show them to the door. "Sorry about her," he said. "You know how she is." He shrugged awkwardly. Harry looked at him appraisingly.

"Yeah," he answered. "Thanks, Dudley."

"Take care of yourself Harry. I hope you find what you're looking for."

"See you, Dudley."

"See you, Harry."

0 0 0

A week after his trip to Grimmauld Place, Severus could not shake the thought of Hermione Granger from his mind. She baffled him, not only by her sudden meltdown in the middle of a perfectly easy exam, but by the fact that she had somehow made him so forget himself as to stop halfway through the test and _comfort_ her. Her tears had left him so abashed that he'd even apologized for speaking harshly to her. 

His office, buried deep within the dungeons, had remained essentially untouched during the battle, although a few potions had fallen off of shelves. They had not yet been replaced, and so a few of his shelves had unseemly gaps in the otherwise rows lines of bottles. They destroyed, in his mind, the careful order he had created in his office, and they teased constantly at his mind as long as he could see them.

He forced himself to look at the gaps made by missing potions. His office was meant to be an orderly, cohesive whole, and it was not. Miss Granger, too, was meant to be a known quantity, as were all of his students. And somehow, since he had awoken in the hospital and seen her, she hadn't been. There were things missing, things that he couldn't explain or understand. And he might have been able to ignore them, except for the fact that they were clearly affecting his mind in some way.

He laid a fresh piece of parchment across his desk and picked up his quill, looking down at it for a long moment before he bent his head so low that his hair brushed the page, and began to write. He had failed to puzzle the question out in his mind. The next step was to write down everything he knew and consider it logically.

Nearly an hour passed before he looked up again. He set the quill down and stared at the page. It contained bulleted lists, written observations, and a handful of arithmantic calculations. He read and re-read them, and eventually something began to be evident to him that he had not thought of before. The more he considered it, the more it seemed to fit the puzzle.

His heart sank.

Picking up the quill once again, he wrote swiftly across the top of the page: '_Life debt + nvbl healing spells. Great emotional stress/trauma. Dreams & visions—contact w/Lily. Possibly inadvertently forged a psychic connection?_'

It was not a possibility that he liked in the slightest. That type of connection between wizards and witches was rare, but possible, and incredibly powerful. Although he had written 'psychic,' it was not a matter of telepathy, but a matter of what was generally thought of as soul-compatibility. Dipping his quill back into the ink, he wrote beneath the first line: '_Not fate or destiny but possibility_.'

"We make our own destiny," he said softly.

Then he angrily crossed the lines out until they were obscured. He refused to acknowledge it as a possibility.

At least, not until he'd spoken with Poppy.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: To everyone who has reviewed--you are totally awesome. Thank you. 

I know this is kind of a cliffhanger--or at least, it is to me. It's sitting there in my head, just begging to be explained, but the chapter was getting long and it's past my bedtime.

What evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!... and hopefully, so will Madame Pomfrey.


	12. Interrogation

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Interrogation**

* * *

A tall, thin man stalked purposefully through the dungeons of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His robes swirled around him as he walked, conveying a fleeting impression of rippling black wings. In the flickering torchlight, he was corpse-pale, except for his eyes, which were deep wells of blackness.

He reached the stairs and began to run, taking them two at a time. He ascended several flights before he reached his destination—the large double doors of the hospital wing. As he reached them, he paused, collecting himself. His hair hung heavily around his face, casting it into shadow as he flung the doors open and strode through.

"Poppy."

He did not raise his voice, and yet somehow it seemed to carry and resonate into the walls. He stopped in the center of the room, scanning each bed carefully, checking to see if anybody was there. Apparently satisfied, he pulled a wand from his robes and waved it at the doors through which he had just entered. They closed with a loud slam, and locked.

Another door opened, a small door at the end of the room, and a slightly plump witch emerged. Her attitude bespoke a woman who would not suffer fools gladly, in which she resembled the dark-haired wizard immensely. Beyond that, however, they could not have looked more dissimilar. She hurried over to him, looking displeased.

"Severus Snape, you'd better have an _excellent_ reason for locking those doors," she said irritably. "This room may be located within the school, but it is a hospital, and as such it ought to remain open at all times."

He regarded her coolly, waiting until she was done speaking before he replied: "I need to speak with you--privately. If you are needed, I daresay that whoever it is will remember how to knock."

"I suppose it is too much to ask that the end of the war might bring an end to your paranoia and bad temper?" she asked irritably. She studied him contemplatively for a moment, and then continued: "I have work to do, Severus. You don't appear to be ill. What do you need?"

One corner of his mouth had quirked in amusement at her first question, but the expression disappeared as completely at the next as if it had never been there at all. "As I said," he murmured smoothly. "I need to speak with you."

"As you have now pointed out twice. Get on with it, please. There will be students arriving in five days, and I've had to entirely restructure my filing system to accommodate the changes that _you_ helped to implement for this year. It needs to be finished before they get here."

"Very well. I will, as you say, _get on with it_." With an irritated expression, he conjured a chair just behind her and gestured gallantly, although his voice remained cold and sarcastic. "I hope you will be seated, Poppy. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable as well as annoyed with me for interrupting your work."

For a moment, she looked as though she would refuse, but then she sat, gazing up at him appraisingly. "Something's happened, hasn't it?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows. "Honestly, I don't know why you feel the need to set up this…interrogation."

His eyes flashed. "Because when I simply _asked_ you, you withheld information from me, Poppy. I told you at the time that I wished to know everything about what went on between Miss Granger and myself in this room, and I now have reason to believe that you did not, in fact, enlighten me completely. If you find me angry, perhaps it has something to do with your omissions."

"I am not a student, Severus!" she snapped angrily. "Kindly do not speak to me like I am. What on earth are you talking about?"

"_Matrimonium Verus Mens_," he hissed, leaning over her and placing his hands on the back of her chair. Her eyes widened, and he sneered triumphantly. "Ah yes, you are familiar with the name? Tell me what you know, Poppy, or so help me, I shall not be responsible for my actions."

"Calm down." She pushed his hands off the chair. "When will you learn that amongst peers and friends, it is preferable to simply ask?"

"When those _supposed_ friends learn that it is distinctly unfriendly to hide information from me." He retreated a fraction, but he was obviously angry. He seemed to be unable to stand still, and paced agitatedly around her.

"I've known you since you were a child, Severus, and you don't scare me with the 'bat of the dungeons' act," she said sharply. "If you have questions, ask them, and I will answer, but I will not stand for this ridiculous attempt at intimidation and interrogation. We are on the same side."

"Then do not lie to me!" he shouted. She did not recoil.

"If I thought it was anything other than preposterously unlikely, I would have mentioned it to you, Severus. However, I did not." He did not look mollified. She eyed him shrewdly. "Was I incorrect? What has happened?"

"It is most likely nothing," he muttered. "I asked merely because I desired information."

"Who's lying now? People who _merely_ desire information do not carry on in this adolescent manner—not even you. If you want information, sit down yourself and stop behaving ridiculously. I will not be bullied by a man whose life I have held in my hands as many times as I've held yours."

He sat, with bad grace, and crossed his arms. He glared at her, his nostrils flaring.

"Much better," she said caustically. "Now if you will stop being an idiot, I might be able to feel concerned enough on your behalf to actually have some desire to educate you."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. The witch seemed to think this was a satisfactory meeting of her demands. Perhaps she didn't believe him capable of containing his wrath sufficiently to do more than stare angrily at her.

"You said _Matrimonium Verus Mens_?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly. He nodded, making no move to push his hair out of his face as it fell forward. "What do you already know about it?"

Making a show of it, he carefully straightened each of his sleeves before answering, brushing a piece of imaginary lint off one of the spotless cuffs. "I know that it is possible, although rare, for a witch and a wizard to form a…link, on a psychic level."

"The marriage of true minds," she murmured softly. "It is incredibly rare, because the circumstances necessary for it to come about are unusual. And, frankly, I don't think you ought to be worrying about this, Severus. I've never heard of it occurring between two people who did not already know each other quite well. What made you even think of it?"

He ignored her question. "What, specifically, is required to bring it about?"

"Well," she said. Then she stopped. It was apparent from her face that she was thinking very carefully about how to word her answer. "As I understand it, and I have never had the opportunity to study it in _detail_, mind you—I've never encountered anybody who had experienced it and there's very little reason to study it otherwise. As I understand it, _Matrimonium Verus Mens_ occurs between two persons who are both relatively powerful, magically speaking. Under circumstances of great emotional stress, an event occurs which causes them to connect on a metaphysical level. It's really rather poorly understood, Severus." She looked apologetic.

"Explain what you mean by 'great emotional stress,' Poppy."

"In the literature I've seen, it almost always involves death. That's one of many reasons I didn't think of it in regards to you and Miss Granger. You may not have noticed it, but you are, technically speaking, alive, and have been so all along."

"Evidently," he said wryly.

"At the precise moment of death, the soul is thought to be caught between two worlds. Those who have reached that moment may still be recalled, although it is very difficult to do so. Wizards who have been saved at the moment of death frequently report unusual visions or experiences—many of them even claim to have encountered and had conversations with others that they know to be dead." Severus suddenly gripped the arm of his chair, but she did not seem to notice.

"In the rarest of cases, a person with a strong emotional attachment to another can, in some way that is not understood, establish a connection with a dying person so strong that it enables them to literally return that person to life, assuming that they do so in time. You understand, it is not actual revivification; it must occur at the moment when death is about to happen, not after the process has been completed.

"It is rare however, because although there are of course many people who feel deep emotional attachment to others, there are few who are also magically and mentally so compatible that the link may form without collapsing in on itself due to the discord between the two souls." She gave him a look. "Again, another reason I did not find it likely. You could not be more different."

He did not move to contradict her—indeed, something in his face seemed to say that he agreed completely.

"_Matrimonium Verus Mens_—the Marriage of True Minds—occurs at that point because, having once forged such a connection, it is impossible to break it without an extreme act."

"Such as?"

"It is believed that the connection may be severed by death, if one of the parties involved is killed at the hand of the other."

"There is no other way?"

"None that is known of."

She lifted her face, studying the vaulted ceiling quietly, mulling over her next statement. "It has been suggested, although there is no official literature on it at this point, that the connection between Harry Potter and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was a variation on this phenomenon."

"Are you suggesting that Harry Potter kept the Dark Lord alive by choice?" He raised his eyebrows, looking disgusted at the thought.

"No—that's why it would have to be a _variation_ on the phenomenon. There have been rumors, Severus, that You-Know-Who made a Horcrux." She glanced at him sharply. He had again tightened his hand on the arm of his chair, but otherwise did not respond. "They've even said that it was located within that boy's scar. If it were true, that would explain it. For a piece of his soul to be physically attached to the boy—well, it certainly would have required the forging of an intense emotional connection. Although the order is reversed; he would have pulled himself back from death using Harry as a tool, rather than Harry doing it himself."

"Apples and oranges, is it not, Poppy? I am not asking you about Potter and the Dark Lord, and I am certainly not dealing in rumors about Horcruxes," he sneered.

"I've told you what I know, Severus."

"What of the effects on those who experience such a link? What might they expect?"

"Have you experienced anything out of the ordinary?" she asked again, her eyes narrowing. "If you have, I suggest you tell me immediately. I suspect that you must have, to come barging in here as you did. I haven't seen you so upset in quite a long time."

"It was a very minor occurrence, Poppy, I do not believe it is relevant."

"Well. The mythology surrounding the whole thing is quite romanticized, in my opinion. It comes of the name, I suppose. One hears 'marriage' and assumes that the two people involved must fall in love and live happily ever after." She snorted derisively. "That is not the case. It has occurred between two heterosexual men and family members, although there have of course been reports of the phenomenon between lovers as well. I imagine if it happened between a man and a woman, it would be very easy for them to go down that path. As I said, it requires great similarity not only of mind but also of spirit. That level of compatibility is rare, and it's understandable that those who find it would be quite drawn to one another."

"Indeed," he said quietly. "It is helpful to know what effects are _not_ to be expected, Poppy," he sneered. "But that was not my question."

Looking affronted, she said: "Very well, then. As I said, the literature is sketchy, and a good deal of it is rumor or speculation. The most plausible sources suggest that people who are so bound experience a significant increase in empathy toward the other person. It's been mistaken for Legilimency at some points, but I believe it's nothing so conscious. If they continue to spend a great deal of time together, there may be some exchange of character traits or thought patterns. There have been one or two reports of shared dreams."

Once again she gave him a look that seemed to be searching for information in his face, but he had drawn a mask of impassivity over his features, and she found nothing there. "Albus said something at one point about Harry and You-Know-Who…"

His hand twitched slightly as though he was going to stop her, but she trailed off and he kept silent.

"Severus, it's clear that you are unwilling to confide in me. All I can tell you is that I believe it is unlikely for you and Miss Granger to be capable of connecting in that way. However, if you believe I'm wrong, your best bet is to stay away from her. Even if you were to be linked in such a way, there is still free will at play. I would warn you, though, not to be tempted to spend too much time with her. Immersing yourself in a relationship with a girl you were so tied to would not be fair to either of you. These sorts of things can cause a dangerous dependency, and I know you well enough to believe that you would not desire such a thing."

He stood, nonverbally vanishing the chair he'd conjured with a quick wave of his wand. "This has been illuminating, Poppy." He hesitated, and then reluctantly spoke again: "I apologize for my manner."

"It was nothing you haven't led us all to expect from you," she said wryly. "Don't worry yourself about something so farfetched, Severus. I'm sure you're being paranoid."

"As you say," he said briefly. Without another word, he unlocked the double doors and slipped out, closing them softly behind him. Poppy Pomfrey watched him leave, concern written plainly on her face—her work, for the moment, forgotten.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Yet again, you all have my humblest and deepest thanks for the reviews.

The "Marriage of True Minds" concept originally comes from Shakespeare. I first heard it discussed as a literary archetype in a class several years ago and have since read several essays on the subject. I thought it would be a fun idea to play with. I've always thought the Snape/Hermione 'ship was very reminiscent of Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre in the book of the same title in many ways, and their relationship falls well within that category, in my opinion.

However, I'm always a annoyed by the fics that create some sort of enchantment or whatnot that simply _forces _Severus to fall in love with Hermione, against his character and sometimes even against his will. Although that has a pleasant Mr. Darcy-esque ring to it, I've never seen it done well, and I never enjoy it. I feel it is against both of their characters.

He might need a nudge, but there still must be free will, or the love is ultimately meaningless and would never rival anything he had with Lily. Mostly, in my mind, this is a way to get him to actually have to notice and deal with an affinity they already have, not to create one _ex nihilo_ as a way out of the hard work at character development necessary to bring it about otherwise.


	13. Age and Reasons

**DISCLAIMER**: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 13: Age and Reasons**

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Five days had passed since, unbeknownst to Hermione, Severus Snape had interrogated Poppy in the hospital wing. She, Harry, Ron, Luna, Ginny and Neville had all found seats in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, which was more crowded than it had ever been before.

"It's weird going back this way," said Ron, voicing a thought that had already occurred to Hermione several times. From the nods the others were giving him, it seemed that they felt the same. So many things had changed that it seemed somehow inappropriate for transport to Hogwarts to still be unchanged, as though nothing had happened.

Nobody spoke much as the train wound its way towards Scotland. The rhythmic noises of the train's engine and the clanking of the rails beneath them were soothing, and Hermione had been up late the night before, nagging Harry to finish packing his things. "I can always apparate back if I forget anything," he'd protested. She'd ignored that and eventually had succeeded in forcing him to pack everything he might reasonably expect to need before Christmas.

But she was worn out and, as the train rocked gently, she let her forehead rest against the window. They'd apparated to the platform already wearing their robes, and she'd drawn her cloak up around her neck. It was so warm and the rhythmic movement of the train was so calming, somehow. Eventually, she fell asleep.

When she woke up again, it was dark outside—they must be very close to the school, she realized.

There had been a noise—something had pulled her out of the deep, dreamless slumber into which she had fallen. Blinking slowly as her mind began to catch up with her body, she looked around the compartment.

Wands were drawn. Each of her friends was tense, looking warily at the entrance to the compartment.

Where Draco Malfoy was standing. Hermione was suddenly intensely glad that she'd fallen asleep and could now pretend she was still in that state of blissful unawareness. She didn't want Malfoy any closer to her than he absolutely had to be.

"Put it away, Potter," he was saying disdainfully. "I didn't come to pick a fight."

"Yeah?" growled Harry. "That'd make it the first time."

"Funny, Potter, I thought you'd jump at the opportunity to showcase the famous Gryffindor honor," came the response, delivered in a superior drawl that had the apparently intended effect of irritating Harry even more. He'd jumped to his feet and thrust his wand forward. Draco, much to Hermione's surprise, seemed to back off a little.

Harry's eyes were flashing dangerously, and he had not lowered his wand. She saw Draco's eyes flitting between Harry's face and his wand, possibly remembering what had happened in their last confrontation. To a Malfoy, she imagined that having his wand mastered by a half-blood Gryffindor would have been a horrible humiliation. "Just because the Ministry believed your little sob story doesn't mean that you've sold me on it," said Harry coldly. His eyes were hard and suspicious. Silently, Hermione breathed her fervent agreement.

Admittedly, she had to give Draco some minimal credit. It was obvious to everyone that he had been very shaken by Voldemort's death and the arrest of his parents. And, rather than running away, he had thrown himself body and soul (apparently) into the rebuilding of Hogwarts, almost always outdoing everyone else, with the possible exception of Neville and Percy. Hermione didn't find it coincidental that of the three of them, two were clearly driven by a guilty conscience.

But her expectations for Malfoy were along the same lines of her expectations for Professor Snape. Dramatic events in the world would change people dramatically, yes, but it would be incredibly obtuse for anyone to suppose that Slytherins would suddenly become un-Slytherin.

That, she supposed, was why she still didn't trust him. In seven years, she had never known Malfoy to do anything without an ulterior motive. Given that Professor Snape, who was assuredly on their side, had never lost that same self-serving tendency, she believed it was optimistic to the point of foolishness to think that Draco Malfoy would suddenly become a straightforward person, reformed or not. It was not a matter of whether or not he had an ulterior motive, but of discovering what that ulterior motive was.

Still, she wasn't sure if his apparent attempt at making nice with Gryffindors stemmed merely from the desire for self-preservation, or if there was something more sinister going on. Lucius, too, she remembered, had managed to regain the trust of much of the Wizarding world after the first fall of Voldemort with similar shows of repentance and friendliness.

She was glad that Harry seemed to have the same doubts as she did.

"We saved your life, Malfoy. Twice." Harry's voice was seething with barely repressed anger. The blond boy had the good sense to look frightened, but he held his ground. Hermione noticed with deep satisfaction that in spite of Draco's sneering, he had a lost a great deal of his former bravado. Apparently being cowed for months by Voldemort and then thoroughly beaten in battle had done him at least some token good.

Draco scowled, and she was struck by the way in which the expression perfectly melded the hauteur of his father with the sullen arrogance of his mother and aunt. It was not a pleasant expression. "I haven't forgotten," he said. It sounded almost like a threat.

"You ungrateful little ferret," growled Ron, getting to his feet beside Harry, his entire body tense and ready to spring if needed. Taking advantage of the fact that everyone's attention had moved to Ron, Hermione pretended to shift slightly in her sleep, gaining a better angle from which to watch. It made her recall the year they had traveled to Hogwarts in the company of Remus Lupin, and she wondered how long he had actually been awake and observing them before they were aware of it. A lump formed in her throat suddenly, and she forced herself to pay attention to Ron, Draco and Harry, instead of the all-too-familiar wave of grief and regret that washed over her.

"Manners, Weasley," Draco was saying, although he still failed to recapture his old arrogance. "I've got something to say and I won't leave without saying it. Surely you're at least curious enough to hear me out before you start throwing hexes. Or are you only interested in information that you come by underhandedly?"

"That's rich, coming from you," muttered Ron. Hermione caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye as Harry's foot moved over Ron's toes and came down heavily. Ron went white, and shut up. She wanted to laugh, and immediately felt guilty for it.

"Say what you have to say, and then we'll decide whether to hex you or not, Malfoy."

The Slytherin boy opened his mouth as if to throw another insult at them, but seemed to think better of it at the last minute. His face contorted for a second as he struggled to switch his line of thought. "Fine," he said ungraciously. "I don't like you, Potter. I don't like you at all. I don't trust you, and I know you don't trust me—"

"—Master of the obvious, isn't he?" Ginny whispered. Nobody else seemed to hear.

"—But unlike you, I've got bigger things to worry about than some stupid schoolboy rivalry. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours."

"Still haven't gotten it through your head that being a Gryffindor doesn't mean I'm completely thick, Malfoy?" replied Harry, none of the suspicion gone from his eyes. "You're right, I _don't_ trust you. In case you've forgotten: after the first time I saved your life, you were still running after Death Eaters, trying to remind them that you're part of their little club."

Hermione wasn't sure if the sudden flush that suffused Draco's face came from embarrassment or anger, but he was obviously flustered. "Very well," he said coldly. "Obviously the Headmistress overestimated your gallantry, Potter."

That strike was well aimed. Harry and Ron both looked suddenly uncertain, and they quickly exchanged glances before turning back to Malfoy. Ron narrowed his eyes. "What's McGonagall got to do with this?"

"She suggested," said Draco with false patience, explaining as if Ron were a particularly dim-witted first year. "That you might be willing to discuss a—_truce_. Seemed to think it was a good time for inter-house cooperation."

Ginny snorted. Malfoy glanced at her for a moment, sizing her up, and then chose to ignore her. Harry, however, was frowning, and Hermione saw him begin to lower his wand.

Ron saw it too. "Are you seriously thinking about believing anything he says?" he demanded indignantly. Harry looked from Ron to Malfoy, and then he shrugged.

"I'll hold off if you will, Malfoy," he said grudgingly, dropping his wand hand to his side. Draco smirked, at which point Harry's eyes grew hard again. "But I warn you, if you're lying, I'll make sure you regret it."

"Very big of you, Potter," sneered Draco, shooting Ron a nasty look. The second youngest Weasley had not yet lowered his wand. Neither had his sister. Luna and Neville, however, had taken Harry's cue and quietly stowed their wands away once again.

"You've said your piece, now get out," Harry said brusquely. With one more glance around the crowded compartment, Draco left. All of the tension seemed to leave with him as Ron and Ginny dropped their wands and Harry took his seat again, tearing the wrapper off a Pumpkin Pasty he must have purchased while Hermione was still sleeping.

They all fell silent again, and Hermione wondered if the entire train ride had been like that—all of them sitting there, not speaking, until Draco had interrupted. She snuggled deeper into her corner, her cloak hitching up higher over her face. It obscured her eyes more completely, allowing her to keep them fully open. Of course, it also obscured more her field of vision. She could see only Luna and the dark windows now. Luna, who had retained something of her ethereal manner throughout everything that had just happened, was turning the pages in a booklet entitled_ The Crumple-Horned Snorkack: Evasive, or Extinct?_ Her face, as it so often did, expressed perfect unconcern. In the reflection on the windows, a streak of white and red was moving restlessly. Hermione guessed from the placement of the other indistinct figures in the glass that it was Ginny.

"Is she ok?" Ginny asked abruptly. After a moment of confusion, in which she wondered what made Ginny think that something was wrong with Luna, Hermione realized that she herself was the subject of her friend's inquiry. That surprised her, although she wasn't sure why. She expected Ron, Harry, or even Neville to ask what Ginny could mean with a question like that, but none of them did.

Instead, she heard Neville, voice fraught with concern, respond that he didn't think so, followed by Harry's murmured agreement. Ron grunted, but didn't say anything coherent. Luna raised her wide, luminous eyes from the pamphlet she was reading, watching the others with quiet interest.

"I don't suppose any of you has an idea what could be wrong with her?" It was Ginny speaking again. In the window, Hermione watched the nebulous streaks of color that represented her friends. They seemed to each be looking at each other for an answer. Luna blinked slowly, but didn't otherwise move or speak. "And I don't suppose," Ginny continued, sounding irritated now. "That any of you have asked her about it?"

Neville coughed uncomfortably. Ron mumbled something indistinct again. Hermione, so caught up in her own feelings of premature age and unwelcome maturity, remembered suddenly that in many ways, they were still boys. Harry and Neville were only just eighteen. Ron wasn't much older. She wondered how she could have failed to consider that, when she was painfully aware that it was the very thing that had made it so difficult for her to get along with Ron all summer.

Still, she herself was also a mere eighteen, at least until September. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was the only one who seemed to have changed really dramatically. Everyone else kept plodding on, more or less the same, if rather sad and battle-hardened. Only she had become so different that her friends needed to discuss her well being behind her back. _On the outside of things once again_, she thought bitterly.

"If anybody had _told_ me that something was wrong, I might have convinced mum to let me out of her sight long enough to visit and ask her myself," Ginny said with some asperity, the words and tone both obviously directed at her brother. Her tone of voice strongly resembled her mother, and Hermione allowed herself a secret smile, knowing that the resemblance probably carried through in her face as well. She could hear Ron squirming. In some way that she didn't really understand, the secret knowledge of his discomfort was a balm to her soul.

"It's obvious, though, isn't it?" interrupted Neville. Luna's head turned, and she fixed her catlike gaze on him. Hermione assumed that the rest of them had done the same. She held her breath, wondering if Neville was about to offer some sort of real insight into a problem that she herself didn't really understand. She risked letting her cloak drop a bit, until she could see half of Neville's face.

He was looking at them with his old honest earnestness. It only reinforced her abrupt understanding of their comparative youth. With his battle wounds healed, his round, open face looked much the same as it ever had. He seemed so unexpectedly young.

"She feels guilty," he said simply. Something in Hermione recoiled, as though he had touched a wound that didn't want to be seen, even by its bearer.

"What are you on about? What's she got to feel guilty for?" Ron's voice was predictably incredulous. Luna quietly picked up her pamphlet on Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and resumed reading, as though they were discussing something no more interesting than the weather. Hermione was surprised to discover that Luna's response was a relief. She didn't like having her feelings picked apart this way. Still, she kept herself covered up, listening. She wasn't sure why; subterfuge wasn't really her style, but if she revealed that she was awake, she'd have to come up with something to say, and she was drawing a blank.

Neville shrugged. "My guess would be that it's for surviving." There was a flash of pain in his eyes that made Hermione think back to an uncomfortable scene, and a flattened candy wrapper slipped surreptitiously into a boy's pocket instead of the trash bin.

She suddenly understood that, of all her friends, Neville might be the only one who really comprehended the daily horror that was survivor's guilt. She wondered if his parents had been tortured on the same night that Harry's had been killed. It seemed like Voldemort's style—'Oh, don't kill _that_ baby, but let's _Crucio_ his parents into madness anyway, just because we can.' She felt a new spike of pride over the moment when Neville had beheaded Nagini, and a simultaneous rush of disappointment that Mrs. Weasley had dispatched Bellatrix Lestrange before Neville could. If anybody had ever deserved the chance to kill someone, she thought, it was Neville.

When Harry spoke up, he sounded less confused than Ron did, and far more concerned. "She shouldn't feel that way, though. She did everything she could do. She saved lives, even. We're all sad, of course, butguilt shouldn't figure."

"Oh Harry," said Ginny quietly, and Hermione heard a faint rustle, as though the boys had leaned forward to hear her better. "Don't you understand? She's spent half her life trying to prove she's really good enough to be part of the Wizarding world. Or did you think she flogged herself to be the best at everything for some reason _other_ than a massive inferiority complex?"

"So?" asked Ron bewilderedly.

"So," Ginny answered, sounding impatient. "You all made mistakes out there. Big mistakes. Important ones. Horrible things happened, and you couldn't stop all of them, because you aren't omnipotent or infallible. And that means that horrible things happened because Hermione was good, but she just wasn't good _enough_."

"Ginny!"

"I'm not saying I agree with it, Ron. It's irrational, and even a little egocentric. But if Neville's right—and I think he's spot on, frankly—that's what she thinks, in her heart of hearts. And all the people we lost, well, that only compounds it, doesn't it? If she's so secretly sure that she doesn't belong, it's got to be awful that people who _did_ belong, like Tonks and Remus, are—are dead." Her voice faltered.

"That's ridiculous," said Ron. "She's brilliant. Anyone worth their salt knows that Hermione belongs in our world more than half the purebloods running around putting on airs about it."

Neville seemed restive, and he sighed, running a hand through hair that had grown long and shaggy over the summer. "How do you know so much about it, anyway?" Coming from Ron, it would have been a challenge, but when Neville said it, the words sounded genuinely curious.

"Oh I don't know," Ginny answered acidly. "I suppose it could have something to do with the fact that being possessed by Tom Riddle and forced to do horrible things has a way of teaching you a little bit about guilt."

Nobody said anything for a long time after that. For Hermione, it was a mixed blessing. She wasn't sure how much longer she could stand eavesdropping as her dearest friends tore clumsily into her psyche and laid it bare. On the other hand, the stillness around her meant that she had to keep her breathing even and controlled, even while tears streamed down her face. Her soul felt more raw than ever, and she didn't know if it was merely from being hurt that her friends had made such assumptions about her, or if it was because she secretly feared they were right.

The gentle rocking of the train was finally starting to lull Hermione back to sleep when Harry stood up and walked over to the window, glancing out.

"We'd better wake her up," he said. "We're almost there."

0 0 0

Severus stood in Minerva's office, arms crossed over his chest, gazing out the window. Far in the distance, he could see the soft glow on the horizon that was Hogsmeade. Any moment now, Hagrid would begin lumbering towards the train to escort the first years across the lake. Much to his disgust, the Board of Governors had insisted that all things remain as close to the normal operation of the school as possible. That meant, he supposed, a load of tiny, shivering, soaking wet eleven-year-olds would once again leave massive puddles in the Great Hall. Filch would come to him and complain about it later, as though there were anything _he_ could do. He sighed in annoyance.

As Deputy Headmaster, Minerva had informed him, it was his duty to lead the first years from the Lake Entrance to the Great Hall. That meant, apparently, giving some sort of comforting speech to the tiny monsters. He truly loathed children.

What he could not understand was how it could be true that he hated children, but also true that he loved to teach. For over the years he had come to realize that he _did _love to teach. Although it stood in the way of the reading and research and solitude with which he could easily have filled his time, it was gratifying to have the occasional student who did, in fact, grasp at least the rudiments of his instruction and come out the better for it. He sneered at the window. He doubted that any of these first years would be in that particular select group.

A door opened behind him. Unseen, his hand twitched a little closer to his wand, but he did not turn around. Minerva would not expect him to, and an intruder would think it showed either great power or great stupidity. As he waited for whoever it was to speak, he thought with grim amusement that Alastor Moody would have been horrified to know how similar Severus' line of thought usually was to his.

"You wanted to see me?"

Severus turned and inclined his head gracefully to the Headmistress. She gave him an irritated look and he smiled slowly. Most certainly, the gesture had been graceful. Everything he did was graceful by intent. Like most other things he did, it had also been sullen, and calculated to annoy. People were far easier to manage when they were off-balance.

"I will never understand," Minerva said, as she settled herself into the desk chair. "How is it that you manage to do such innocuous things and make them seem so very rude."

"As a Gryffindor, Headmistress, I would not expect you to."

She smiled wryly. "I suppose you're right. No point in asking you to stop, I know, and we're running short on time. The students will be here very soon. What did you need to discuss with me?"

He calculated for a moment. She was annoyed with him, and she was preoccupied with the impending arrival of their students. _Probably working out the last bits of her speech_, he decided. He allowed himself to relax a little, and drew up a chair. It made no difference to him whether he sat or stood, but she would be pleased by the impression of friendliness (for him) that it conveyed, and that worked to his ends as well.

"I wish to discuss the possibility of a slight schedule change."

Her face fell. He frowned slightly in response. He would have preferred to discuss it as soon as the idea had occurred to him, but first he had been doing his own research, then he had been discussing it with Poppy, and then the Headmistress had been unreachable. He doubted he had much chance, having allowed it to come so close to the wire, but he needed to try.

"You must be joking," she muttered wearily, putting her head in her hands. He raised one eyebrow slightly, intending to convey his displeasure. She allowed herself to seem so _weak_. Did she not understand the dangers of doing so, even with him?

"Severus, we have worked for the entire summer to create these schedules. If you weren't happy with yours, why didn't you say so when I could have been reasonably expected to do something about it?"

His frown deepened. "I did not initially find fault with it, but I have since been having second thoughts. I do not wish to tutor Hermione Granger."

All weakness disappeared from her face, which seemed to have turned to stone. Her old, familiar sternness seemed to have returned full-force. "We have discussed at length my reasons for assigning her to you," she said thornily.

"Indeed," he affirmed. "But, as I already said, I have been having second thoughts. I do not feel it is…wise…for Miss Granger and I to spend so much time together."

"And I do not feel it is _wise_ for anyone else to be her teacher, _Professor Snape_," she snapped. He scowled darkly, staring over at the portrait of Dumbledore, who was listening to the conversation with rapt attention. He would need to speak with Dumbledore about this alone at some point, he realized.

"I find it nothing short of preposterous that you are incapable of suppressing your damnable Slytherin prejudices in order to provide tutoring to the brightest student of her year, if not the brightest in the entire school. Not since Lily Potter have I seen a girl who—"

"You will not, and you _cannot_ use Lily Potter to manipulate me!" he spat out furiously, rising to his feet.

She merely raised one eyebrow. Damn the woman, but she spent so much time as a cat that she had learned how to mimic that same imperturbable stare even in her human form.

"Have you quite finished, Severus? Yes? Good. Don't bother to sit back down, this conversation is over. I do not trust any of the other professors—no, not even myself, don't say it—to be unbiased with her. As you are the only person at this school who will be able to give her the treatment she both needs and deserves, I have determined, as I am well within my authority to do, that you will be her teacher, whether you like it or not. I hope you will not drive me to the extreme of mentioning that you agreed to this, which would naturally lead to my having to cast aspersions on Slytherin House's honor as well as its prejudice."

He stared blackly at her for a moment, but she'd seen the same sort of look from too many students to be cowed by it when it came from him. Out of the corner of his eye, Dumbledore was chuckling. He wondered anxiously what the former Headmaster would say if his suspicions proved to be correct.

_Not that they will_, he reminded himself for the hundredth time that day.

"I bow to your authority, Headmistress," he muttered sullenly, and left. Behind him, Minerva McGonagall watched him go, an amused half-smile tugging at her lips.

"Poor Severus," she murmured with a chuckle. "Spent years as a double-agent, risking your life with the Death Eaters, and you feel you can't cope with an eighteen year old Gryffindor girl? How embarrassing that must be." Dumbledore chuckled.

0 0 0

A group of tiny, shivering first years huddled together in the stone stairwell that a huge, shaggy giant of a man had just ushered them into. Halfway to the castle, a gigantic squid had burst from the lake and drenched them all completely in icy water. Their brand new school robes were soaked through, and the chill of the castle was seeping into their bones.

"W-where do we go next?" stammered one of them. The rest of the group shrugged uncertainly, looking around as if for a hint.

"With me," replied a cold, malicious voice. The voice belonged to a wizard who had just stepped out of the shadows, where they would have sworn nobody had been standing a moment before. He looked like a shadow himself. He was tall and thin, and his face was almost entirely obscured (except for his large, hooked nose) by a fall of greasy black hair. He wore black robes that clasped over a high collar, buttoned up almost to his chin. In fact, every inch of his body except for his face and hands was covered with black. He was, to say the least, intimidating.

As one, the first years took a step backwards.

To their horror, when they moved back, he moved forward. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was staring down at them with an expression that reminded even the Muggle-born children of a vampire. If ever anybody had wanted to pounce on small children and suck out their blood, surely it was this man.

"It's Professor Snape!" whispered one of the children, who had obviously heard horror stories about him from a sibling, or perhaps even his parents. The rest took up the whisper, and his name went through the group in a series of sibilant rustles. Some of them were still visibly trembling, but it was evident from their faces that the tremors were no longer being caused by a chill.

He was staring at them like they were black beetles he would readily crush under his feet or (if they had known so much about Potions) pluck the eyes from to use as ingredients. One of them whimpered. He smiled.

Discussing it later, several future Hufflepuffs would agree that the smile had been the worst part of all.

When he had stared them into a completely cowed silence, he spoke again:

"My name," he said softly. "Is Professor Snape, and I have the dubious honor of welcoming you to Hogwarts. In a moment, I will allow you to enter the Great Hall. However, before I do, there are several things of which I feel duty-bound to inform you."

They shuffled from foot to foot uncomfortably, none of them willing to look up at his face.

"Before I allow you to leave this stairway, you will see to it that you are presentable." The frosty expression of is black eyes took on a note of disgust as they moved over the disarray of the first years' wet robes. "When you enter the Great Hall, you _will_ be silent. You will stand where I tell you to stand, and you will not move until I call your name. At that point, you will step forward to be Sorted.

"When your Sorting is complete, you will proceed to sit at the House table indicated, where you will continue to be silent until you are given leave to do otherwise. There are four Houses in this school—Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin."

He seemed to draw out the last name, pronouncing it with the first approximation to warmth or pleasantness that he had shown since his appearance. A few students who must have been familiar with the Houses already exchanged knowing glances. Nobody needed to ask which House Snape had been in.

"While you attend this school, your House will be both your blessing and your curse. Members of other Houses will despise you, while members of your own House will build you up. You will take classes as a group. You will eat as a group. You will live as a group. Your every action at this school will reflect upon the group. Success in class will earn you points for the group. Rule-breaking and stupidity will lose points for the group. At the end of the year, the honor of your House will depend on those points. And yet you will be challenged to do this without developing prejudice against those who have been Sorted differently. Given that you appear to be as stupid and mentally limited as every other first year class I have ever seen, I do not expect to see many of you living up to this challenge with even minimal success. Now," he finally paused, surveying them with a nasty smirk. "You have sixty seconds to do something about your disgraceful state of dishevelment, and then you will follow me."

His words were followed by a sudden flurry of activity as children anxiously pulled their robes straight, ran fingers through their sopping wet hair, and generally attempted to impose order where very little could be found. Snape looked bored.

When sixty seconds had passed, he turned his back on them without another word and stalk up the stairs. In silence, except for a few frightened squeaks that apparently could not be contained, they ran after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

When they entered the Great Hall, though, it was hard for them not to gasp. The ceiling was huge and high, and velvety black, scattered with stars. Below it, candles and chandeliers were suspended from nothing at all, casting a warm yellow glow over the room.

The room was very wide, and held five tables. One of them was obviously the staff table, as it was raised above the rest and contained only adults. A huge tapestry was hanging behind it, covered with names embroidered in gold thread. The other four were perpendicular to the staff table, and each was decorated in a different color, placed two-by-two on either side of a wide gap, which formed an aisle leading up the room. At the very end of the aisle, just in front of the staff table, stood a wooden stool, on which was perched a disheveled black hat. A few feet in front of that, a large, perfectly round piece of obsidian had been embedded in the floor.

It was on this piece of obsidian that Professor Snape directed the first years to stand, an oddly triumphant expression on his face as he did so. A few of them, still unable to look anywhere but at their feet, noticed the inscription on the stone:

AT THIS SITE FELL TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

FASHIONED LORD VOLDEMORT

_draco dormiens nunquam titillandus _

Slowly they began to budge away, until nobody was standing on the name itself. Snape noticed this and looked so displeased that a few of the more timid ones moved back, apparently deciding that a living Snape was worse than a dead Voldemort.

A tall, austere witch in green robes and square spectacles stood up, looking out over the assembled students.

"Welcome to another year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said. Although she did not seem to raise her voice, it carried through the room and echoed back towards her.

"For those of you who do not know, I am Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. Much to our regret, Professor Snape has stepped down from the position of Headmaster in order to resume his post as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." There were a few scattered murmurs at this, and snorts of disbelief from all except the Slytherins, who were almost all glaring daggers at Snape's back.

"Returning students will, I am sure, note the changes to the Great Hall which have been made since you were last here. At the close of the Welcoming Feast, you will be allowed to remain in order to view the memorial tapestry and the grave marker. Those who have not yet noticed the latter will find it beneath the feet of our first year students, and I am sure they will recognize why we felt it was appropriate." Many of the Slytherins looked even angrier. The rest of the students were nudging each other and smirking. Snape's smirk returned.

"As solemn at this occasion is, we are pleased to see so many of you here once again. I would like to extend a special welcome to the students returning to repeat their seventh year of school, and to those who are arriving for the first time. I will not speak long as to those who are _not_ here. Houses who have lost members to death are already painfully aware of that fact, and those who have lost members to Azkaban are, I hope, suitably ashamed." Briefly, her eyes moved to the Slytherin table. Nobody spoke. "I will only say that I hope these losses will remind us that there are more important things in our world than petty inter-House rivalries and prejudices. We would all do well to bear it in mind."

She clapped her hands together, and flames burst dramatically from torches lining the hall, flooding it with even more light. "Let the Sorting commence."

A dead silence fell over the Hall as the echoes of her voice died away, and all eyes fixed on the first years (or on the obsidian circle, it was difficult to tell which). Snape walked to the stool and shot the hat a look without moving his head. Up close, it had a charred, dried-out appearance. The people at the tables turned to look at the hat as well, apparently expecting something from it. A rip near the brim opened up and the hat appeared to look around, which was impressive, since it had no eyes.

"_Begin_," it said hoarsely, and then fell silent again.

A loud gasp rose up, and a number of wordless exclamations, this time from professors as well as from students. Even Snape looked startled, his head snapping around to look at the hat straight on this time. The first years looked around anxiously, wondering what was amiss.

But Snape had recovered himself, and he drew a parchment from his robes, consulting it for a moment before he barked out: "Abercrombie, Gavin!"

Gavin Abercrombie, a tiny boy with large ears and too many freckles, shot a look at the Gryffindor table, where his brother gave him an encouraging thumbs-up, and then stumbled forward towards the stool. Another year at Hogwarts had begun.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: This is the longest chapter I've yet written. Hopefully that will appease those of you who have said my chapters were too short. Now that we're back at Hogwarts, hopefully it will be easier to write longer chapters. I find it very awkward switching between Severus and Hermione's narratives when one is at Hogwarts and one is at Grimmauld Place, and I never liked summers in Harry Potter anyway.

There are a few revelations yet to come, including a big one about Draco that I'm sure not all of you will like, but that I felt was necessary for plot reasons. There might be another chapter as soon as tonight, since I've got lots of ideas jostling around in my head.

And lastly.. dear reviewers, you are the light of my life. It is a thrill like no other to know that you're out there, reading this and even sometimes liking it. To everyone who has taken the time out to write a note of encouragement or criticism to me, you have my eternal gratitude. To anyone who hasn't done so...doesn't this just make you wish that you had? You know it does. Seriously.

If I haven't responded to your review yet, rest assured that I will be attempting to do so this weekend, now that I have more free time available than it takes to write a new chapter.


	14. Entanglements

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Entanglements**

* * *

Hermione, like everyone in the Hall, stared at the Sorting Hat, all else forgotten. The Hat featured largely in what was almost her very first memory of school, and that memory had definitely included a song, as had nearly every memory of the hat since then. She wondered when that particular tradition had begun, and resolved to check _Hogwarts, A History_ to see if it mentioned anything about it.

Professor Snape, not unexpectedly, was the first to recover, and while the rest were still staring at the Sorting Hat and trying to understand what had just happened, he produced his list of first years and began calling out names. Gavin Abercrombie hurried to the Gryffindor table to join his brother, and Hermione suddenly realized that Euan Abercrombie and Minerva McGonagall were the only people clapping. She nudged Harry and they both burst into overly enthusiastic applause, followed slowly a moment later by the rest of the table. Euan was leaning over and whispering to Gavin, and Hermione hoped it was to reassure him that their initial silence had nothing to do with disapproval over the results of his Sorting.

Snape was continuing to call out names, but Hermione wasn't listening. She leaned over Harry and cleared her throat.

"Nick," she whispered, only just loud enough to be heard over the applause for Forster, Geoffrey ("Ravenclaw!"). The ghost turned to her with a polite expression.

"Yes?" he asked, his eyes flickering between Hermione and the Sorting Hat.

"Has that ever happened before?"

Several other heads turned toward them, listening curiously. Nick surveyed the table importantly.

"It has never happened before in all of my memory. The Hat takes a great deal of pride in its yearly performance, as I am sure that you know. I have never known it to forgo its song before." Nick looked over at the Hat again, as though unsure of what else to say. "I believe I will go and discuss it with the other ghosts; perhaps they have more insight than I." 

Hermione watched Nick drift away, clapping vaguely for Lawrence, Hugh as he joined Gavin at the Gryffindor table. Ron and Ginny leaned across the table as they clapped, and Ginny tossed her head in Nick's direction. "Bit odd, don't you think? What's the explanation for all that?"

Harry shrugged, frowning at Nick's back as he floated in the direction of the Bloody Baron. "Maybe it just couldn't come up with anything to say. It seems to be doing alright with the Sorting."

Several minutes went by, and they all watched Willoughby, Morgana saunter over to the Slytherins, who were welcoming her halfheartedly to the table. Only a scant handful of the older Slytherins had returned. Draco was the only one from their year, and although he was clapping, his eyes were not on her, but on the obsidian circle bearing Voldemort's name, which now had only one student left standing on it.

Ziller, Belladonna winced when her name was called. Professor Snape had enjoyed himself, managing in some way that Hermione didn't really understand to pronounce each name like it was an insult. He quirked his eyebrow in amusement before reading the last one, but did not change his manner in the least. The poor girl sat on the stool and seemed to slump with relief the moment the Hat covered her eyes, hiding the rest of the Hall from sight.

A few moments later, she was being settled in at the Hufflepuff table, and the Hat had been returned to the Headmistress' office to await next year.

"Poor girl," said Ron, shaking his head and reaching for the roast beef. "Bad enough to be the last one called, but to have a name like that." Everyone else began loading their plates up with food, and the familiar sound of many voices chattering began to build and fill the Great Hall.

"I don't know, I thought it was sort of nice," commented Neville.

Ron snorted. "You would, wouldn't you?" He shoveled in a mouthful of shepherd's pie with a blissful expression, closing his eyes.

"Don't expect any more out of him until after the Feast," said Ginny derisively. "He's been eating nonstop for the whole summer, and he can't be bothered to stop now."

Ron shot her a dirty look, but he kept eating. Ginny made a face at him and then attacked her own food angrily with fork and knife, mangling her pork chop into tiny pieces without showing any intention of actually eating it. Hermione watched in silence. She hadn't seen Ginny at all since leaving Hogwarts, and somehow neither of them had felt comfortable conveying much about their feelings in letters. She couldn't imagine that the younger girl was coping well, though, and Ginny's tendency to be sharp-tongued seemed to have increased dramatically over the summer.

Harry wasn't eating, but instead was looking at the staff table, a frown plastered over his face. Hermione followed his gaze and frowned as well. Professor Snape was watching the Gryffindors intently, not bothering to even attempt to disguise the fact. He looked even unhappier than he usually did, and as they watched he rested one elbow on the table and brought two fingers to the side of his neck, stroking them softly over the spot where Hermione knew the scar was.

"What's wrong with _him_?" asked Harry in a low voice. Hermione shrugged, looking back down at her plate. She didn't want to think about Professor Snape. In fact, she had worked very hard not to think about Professor Snape. Something about their last encounter was bothering her, niggling at her mind, and she could not for the life of her think what it was.

As a result, avoidance seemed like the best policy. The fact that he was, indeed, gazing fixedly at their table did not comfort her.

"Oi, Harry," muttered Ron through a mouthful of food. "What's Snape staring at you for?"

Ginny and Neville turned surreptitiously to look at the staff table as well. Professor Snape finally seemed to get the hint and, with a scowl, turned away to say something to Professor Sprout. Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

"I think he must still be angry about the question I asked him."

Ginny reached over Ron's plate and picked up a roll. "What did you ask him, Harry?"

Harry, however, did not answer. Lavender Brown had just spilled pumpkin juice all over his lap and was so over-eager in her attempts to help him mop it up that she'd overturned his dinner plate as well. In spite of this, he didn't quite manage to look displeased with the attention. Hermione, distracted by the commotion, suddenly discovered that her own lap was subject to a similar deluge. Ginny had apparently knocked her own cup over and pumpkin juice had run across the table to drip all over Hermione and Neville.

"Oh, honestly," said Hermione shortly. "Get out of the way, Lavender." With a wave of her wand, she nonverbally vanished the mess, first from Harry's lap, then from Neville's, and finally from her own. Lavender looked slightly put out.

Ginny stood up, refusing to look at Harry or anyone else. "You know, I think somehow I'm not hungry after all," she said abruptly and walked away, not bothering to step aside as Nearly Headless Nick floated back towards them. She walked directly through him without so much as flinching.

They all watched her go. "Well done, Harry. Tactful as always," Hermione said. He had the good sense to look chagrined.

"I'd better go after her," he muttered, jumping up and running toward the door Ginny had just stormed through. Neville politely kept his eyes on his plate, but Ron stared after them, getting rather red in the face.

"I've about had it with the way he's treating Ginny," he growled. "I thought I made it clear to him last year, he isn't to trifle with her like that, or he'll have me to deal with."

"Oh, are they seeing each other?" asked Lavender innocently. Hermione noticed that Lavender's robes were still spotless and dry and wondered exactly how unintentional the upset had been.

"_No!_"

"Shut up, Ron," said Hermione. He blinked. "Ginny's old enough to handle herself, and if she has something to say to Harry, you need to let her say it, not go rushing in and try to rescue her."

"I'm not going to let him play my sister!"

"You don't have a choice if _she_ wants to let him!"

They were raising their voices, and Hermione suddenly became aware that the rest of their table had fallen silent; a number of people were watching them curiously. The first years, down at the end of the table, looked utterly terrified. Seamus was nudging Dean with a significant look.

The Gryffindor table and the Slytherin table had been moved so that they were now side-by-side, and Draco Malfoy was also watching, an unreadable sneer on his face. Ron, too, seemed to notice all of this, for he went even redder in the face and clamped his mouth shut, refusing to say any more.

"Fine behavior, from a prefect," hissed Hermione angrily. Ron rolled his eyes, and it did not mollify Hermione in the slightest to know that he'd picked the trick up from her.

"You can talk," he whispered back angrily, unable to contain himself for long. "You're a prefect too, or were you too busy worrying over Harry and his potion to pay attention to that little detail?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione noticed that the fact that they had lowered their voices did not seem to diminish the interest that others were taking in their argument. It didn't stop her from continuing; she was well beyond anything more than token self-restraint. "That was a low blow, Ronald Weasley. If this is about Harry, I'll thank you to come out and actually say it to my face. We've been over that again and again, and if you're still too thick to get it through your head that Harry and I are just friends, I'm not going to waste any more breath trying to explain it to you."

Ron planted both palms flat on the table and leaned forward aggressively, his face contorted with anger. He seemed to only just barely manage to keep his voice low. "Only I don't know that anymore, do I? You've been living with him all summer and only seeing me on the weekends, and you can't pretend you've exactly been pleasant when I'm around. Why is that? Guilty conscience, Hermione?" His eyes were flashing with something that she didn't like at all; it reminded her of someone. She couldn't exactly place who it was, but she knew she didn't like it.

Lavender was openly scooting closer, trying to listen. Even Parvati, who had spent nearly the entire meal in the same morose silence that she had maintained since her twin's death, was watching them with a flicker of curiosity.

"That," snarled Hermione, piqued to the point of absolute fury. "After everything else we've been through, is the most unbelievable, childish, pathetic thing you have _ever_ said to me."

She pushed her plate away, getting up from her seat and jabbing one finger in Ron's face. "And I hope you know, that's saying quite a lot." Without another word, she stalked angrily in the same direction that Harry and Ginny had gone.

Ron stared after her, his mouth slightly open. Neville, Dean and Seamus were gazing at him sympathetically. Romilda Vane bumped against Lavender and whispered something to her, which elicited a fit of giggling from the older girl.

"What did I say?" he asked helplessly of the table in general.

"You said enough, mate," said Dean, shaking his head.

"Bugger this for a lark," muttered Ron, shooting one last longing look at his plate (still half-full) before getting up to follow her. "Neville, you're Head Boy. Show the new lot how to get to the tower, will you? This is probably going to take a while."

Neville shrugged and reached for his pumpkin juice. "Better you than me." He shook his head. "We'll come by later to take you to the hospital wing."

0 0 0

Professor Sprout was nattering on at him about her most recent changes to the greenhouses. Severus had already heard about them at some length in the staff room, but she did not seem to have reached the end of her ability to describe glass panes in exhaustive and loving detail. He was beginning to doubt that she ever would. Thankfully, she was used to his customary reticence and so he could sit in silence while she did him the too-generous favor of assuming he was paying attention.

He listened only just enough to guess when it would be appropriate to nod, or perhaps make some noncommittal sound of interest. His focus, however, was fixed elsewhere, and he found it difficult to pull himself away.

Thanks to the new arrangement of the tables in the Hall, she was sitting so close that, if he so chose, he could read her lips. The Weasleys seemed to be having some sort of altercation, which Miss Granger and the rest were ignoring. His lip curled as Potter leaned over to her, whispering something in her ear. He was looking forward to seeing Potter again almost as little as he was looking forward to dealing with Miss Granger. The boy was a fool and an insult to the memory of his mother, to suggest such things about her as he had done at their last meeting.

_Still_, insisted a small, truthful voice inside of his head, _she wasn't _entirely_ faithful before the wedding. Who am I to know what she did after it?_ The thought was not a pleasant one, and he shoved it aside. He knew very well that Lily had been faithful to James. If she had been tempted otherwise, surely she would have answered the letter.

Assuming that her cow of a sister had actually delivered it. Assuming that she was in love with only two men. Assuming that she would not sleep with a man she didn't love. He twitched away from the train of thought, refusing to follow it any longer.

For the moment, he cared very little about whether or not Harry believed that someone other than James could be his father. He was far more concerned about Harry's friend. Unconsciously, he began to stroke over his scar with two fingers. He was not accustomed to experiencing anxiety in connection with encountering his students. He had long ago learned how to be the master of such situations, and they had ceased to worry him. And yet, and yet, he could not think of being alone with her without being gripped by a sense of dread.

It was unlikely that anything real had passed between them, but it was not so unlikely that he could dismiss it altogether, and he did not relish the idea of being so vulnerable to another person. It only added insult to injury for that person to be a student, a Gryffindor, and Harry Potter's best friend. But no, it was better to ignore it, to refuse to acknowledge it as a legitimate possibility. Any other line of thinking was absurd. They barely even knew each other, and she disliked him as much as he disliked her. Of that he was quite certain.

Something in his mind finally took note of the fact that nearly half of the students at the Gryffindor table were staring at him. Abruptly, he turned away, muttering some pleasantry about the greenhouses to Pomona, who looked pleased. He cursed himself silently. Had he really lost so much of his talent for stealth over the summer that he could be caught staring in one direction like a lovesick schoolboy? Growing obsessive over the _Matrimonium Verus Mens_ question would do nothing to answer it and could potentially do a great deal of harm, if the worst proved to be true. He was determined to look no more, and actually went so far as to pose a question to Pomona that he knew could keep her talking for the rest of dinner with a little encouragement.

It did, too, until she broke off halfway through a sentence and looked over at the Gryffindor table with a murmur of surprise. Minerva and the other professors were doing the same, and so he felt justified in looking, just to see what was so interesting.

She was fighting with Ronald Weasley, it seemed, although shortly after the teachers took note, the two seemed to realize that they had an audience and dropped their voices accordingly. He narrowed his eyes, doing what he could to read her lips as she whispered furiously—calling Weasley out for not behaving like a prefect ought to, apparently. Glancing over to Weasley, he caught the shape of Harry's name, and then something that looked like 'potion.' _That_ was certainly interesting. He wondered what potion Harry (or, more likely, Miss Granger on his behalf) could possibly be interested in. He would need to look into that.

Whatever it was, mentioning it had obviously set the girl's temper off. She was growing angrier by the minute, whispering furiously. He wished she would turn her head a little more towards him—it was impossible to decipher everything she was saying while her face was in profile. He caught Harry's name again, accompanied by an angry gesticulation.

Weasley was almost as hot under the collar as she was, and as he leaned forward, Severus found he was able to read the boy's lips more clearly. He knew from things people had dropped at occasional Order debriefings in Minerva's office that she'd been staying with Harry, but he had assumed that Weasley was doing the same. If he hadn't, Severus didn't blame him for being suspicious. In his experience, Potters had a nasty way of stealing women.

But Weasley had gone too far in suggesting it openly, and she apparently intended to let him know it. Still whispering furiously, she tossed her head, and her hair fell forward to obscure her face, effectively cutting him out of the conversation. All he knew was that whatever barbs she had thrown did not miss their mark. Her—Boyfriend? Lover? Whatever he was, he flinched, giving her a look of mingled anger and befuddlement. Typical Weasley expression.

Severus, with the rest of the teachers, watched her walk out, broadcasting her fury for all the school to see. Weasley, after a moment's hesitation, got up and ran after her. With deliberate calm, he returned to his conversation with Pomona, dismissing it as merely a lover's quarrel and putting it from his mind.

It had simultaneously comforted and irritated him to see her engaging in something so immature as a public fight with Ron Weasley. It was childish behavior, and children were something he could handle, even if he didn't particularly like the job. On the other hand, having even a portion of his soul open to a child (Merlin forbid) would be no more comfortable than having it open to a young woman. Still, somehow in his mind he had allowed her to become something more than she had previously been, and that wouldn't do. It soothed him to see her behaving like a mere mortal.

0 0 0

Hermione stopped walking just outside the door, leaning against the cool stone wall and taking a few deep breaths. She found it unspeakably infuriating that Ron could be so jealous and possessive of her--especially about Harry, when the fight had originally been about Harry's right to date Ron's sister. Even Ron should be smart enough to figure out that if she wanted to date Harry, she wouldn't keep Ron from interfering between Harry and Ginny.

It occurred to her, as she thought about Harry and Ginny, that Ron would probably come after her, and she began walking again, hurrying towards the Gryffindor tower. Sure enough, she heard Ron's footsteps behind her a moment later, running to catch up. She increased her pace, pretending not to hear as he puffed along behind her.

"Hermione!" he shouted, and she stopped walking, her hands clenched into fists so tightly that they turned completely white. His footsteps echoed through the hallway as he ran the last few steps to where she was standing, looking harried and just slightly out of breath.

"What is all this about?" he asked.

She spun around to face him. That question had made her, if it was possible, even angrier than before, and she began to shout before she even realized she was doing it:

"When did you become such an absolute sodding _twat?_"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think it's pretty clear what it's supposed to mean, Ronald! Or do I need to explain that to you, just like everything else?"

He blanched, but bravely soldiered on: "Listen, Hermione. I'm sorry, all right? It was uncalled-for and you have every right to be angry with me. Only… hear me out, will you?"

She glowered at him rebelliously, but fell silent, crossing her arms and waiting for his explanation. He looked at her for a long minute without saying anything, apparently waiting to be sure that she had really decided to stop shouting at him.

"Will you come and sit down?" he asked, taking her arm and gently leading her to a bench along the wall. She sat unwillingly and he sat down next to her, taking her hand into his.

"I know things have been hard, Hermione," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry. You don't know what it's like, being at the Burrow all the time, with mum crying constantly, Ginny biting everyone's head off all the time, dad moping about and George looking like he wants nothing more than to jump in front of a train. Teddy's the only one who's ever cheerful and he's only a few months old. It's miserable, Hermione, and every weekend I've hoped that you'd be glad to see me, and you never seemed like you were."

She looked down at their hands, still saying nothing.

"I know we never really talked about—about where things stand, between us. I've wanted to talk about it so many times, but you've been so prickly and then with this potion business, and Neville coming by, and then school… There just hasn't been a chance to talk." He drew a deep breath, and then brought his hand to her face, lifting her chin in order to look into her eyes. "I'm sorry for being jealous, but I've spent the whole summer feeling as though you were slipping out of my hands, and I can't bear it. I love you, Hermione. I've loved you for so long I can't even remember what it's like not to love you anymore. The thought of losing you to anyone is more than I can stand."

Hermione made a small, choked noise, but didn't move. He was gazing into her eyes with an intensity she had rarely seen in him before, and she couldn't pull away.

"I know I don't deserve you—no, don't even try to deny it, it's the truth and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I know I don't, but I had hoped that maybe you'd overlook that and give me a real chance anyway. I can make you happy, Hermione, I'm sure I can. It's silly to keep playing at love like this and never come out and tell each other the truth, isn't it? We're not third years anymore."

He stopped talking, his eyes boring into her face with a look of mingled hope and apprehension. She chewed on her lip unhappily. She loved Ron, didn't she? She'd been so sure of it once, and then somehow the knowledge it had gotten away from her and she didn't know anymore.

But it was foolish to think that this wasn't supposed to happen. Everybody knew they belonged together, had known it for years, even before they did. It was inevitable. It was fate. She had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Weasley had already picked out the wedding robes that she felt would best fit her figure and skin tone. It would be selfish and wrong of her to allow a few months of grief and self-doubt to eclipse something that was clearly meant to be. Grief would pass away. Ron wouldn't. He would always be there, loving her. And she owed it to everybody.

"'Mione," he whispered tenderly. Carefully, as though afraid she might fly away, he snaked his arms around her and drew her to himself. "Please forgive me."

His chest was warm, and he smelled good. _Familiar_, she thought; and in that moment she could convince herself that familiarity and comfort meant almost as much to her as love. She allowed him to gather her up, and even to rest his head atop hers. His hand was rubbing in small, gentle circles on her back and the sensation soothed and consoled her. He was infinitely reassuring, and he loved her so much. What did it matter if she didn't feel quite the same? She had once, she was sure, and those feelings would come back. They _had_ to come back.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she whispered into his shoulder. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

He kept rubbing her back tenderly, making soft, soothing noises into her hair. "I know, love. I understand. Everything is going to be all right. We've all been off this summer, but we're going to pull through. Together." He tightened his arms around her.

She shifted so that she could look up at his face, longing desperately to believe that he was right. Misinterpreting her action, he leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to hers.

His lips were damp and full, and in spite of a great deal of time spent on sucking Lavender Brown's face off, the kiss was as tentative as if it were his first. It was completely different from the last kiss they'd shared, and Hermione's heart suddenly began to pound very hard. Ron was kissing her. He was kissing her in the hallway. And, she noticed suddenly, she was kissing him back. Somehow, she realized, they had just reached some sort of agreement, and she wasn't even sure what it was. She tried to suppress her panic at that realization and forced herself to remain in his arms, forced herself to enjoy the kiss. His hands were moving into her hair, tangling with the curls there, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. Giving in, she went limp against him, holding tightly to his shoulders and parting her lips to him as the tip of his tongue traced over them.

0 0 0

He did not _intend_ to follow her.

No, he certainly did not intend to follow her. He had lingered in the Great Hall until the students began to wander about and look at the stone and the tapestry. At that point, he was unwilling to stay, even to avoid Miss Granger. Surely she had made it to the Gryffindor tower by then. Even if she had not, though, he felt no desire to remain and suffer through the pity party that was sure to begin at any moment amongst the older students when they began to read the appallingly long list of names now hanging from the wall. Every person, Muggle or magical, who had died as a result of Tom Riddle's life had their name inscribed on that tapestry, beginning with the Gaunt family.

Of course, he didn't want to avoid her either. To avoid her was also a trap, equal and opposite to the trap of following her. The key was to ignore her completely. He was irritated with himself for allowing the power of suggestion to overtake him so completely. The mere concept of _Matrimonium Verus Mens_ was enough to engross him with thoughts of her. She was a student—no more, no less—and there was no phantom connection between their souls for him to fear. It was preposterously unlikely.

He began his customary patrol of the halls, forcing himself to think on other things. Eventually he settled into an easy stride, his robes fluttering out behind him as he prowled. The walk relaxed him and, once again, years of Occlumency came to his aid, helping him to quiet his mind and remove those thoughts he was unwilling to indulge. His hours of roaming through the school were admittedly motivated by the desire to ensure that all students were where they ought to be and behaving properly. But he would not deny that they had the added benefit of calming his often-troubled thoughts.

It did not matter to him whether his mental anguish came from doubt over a situation like that with Miss Granger or guilt over his past misdeeds. He was master of his own mind, and he would control it.

Therefore, when he stumbled across Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley in an alcove less than a hundred feet from the Great Hall, it was completely unintentional. He stood in a shadow, watching them with mild interest. Weasley seemed to have atoned for his misdeeds, as he was now kissing Miss Granger with some enthusiasm. She, for her part, was being rather passive. He had surprised enough students in compromising situations to be a fair judge of such things, and he was surprised to see her so—limp.

He was pleased to have discovered them. Much like the argument in the Great Hall had done, his discovery of their tryst reminded him that she was no different from his other students. Apart from her intellectual ability, which he was not as inclined to worship as the rest of the faculty was, she was simply another Gryffindor who had stumbled rashly into a situation she really ought not to have been in. It also provided a perfect opportunity to implement a plan that had occurred to him when it became clear that he had no way to avoid her company. Minerva had decreed that he must spend time with her; she hadn't said that he had to be pleasant about it.

And Severus was very, very good at being unpleasant. It would be no trouble at all for him to keep her at arm's length.

Weasley had broken away to whisper something in her ear that was turning her face an amusing shade of red, and Severus deemed it an appropriate moment to interrupt.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger." They broke apart guiltily, each retreating to opposite sides of the bench. Weasley's face was so red that it could have blended in perfectly with his hair, if not for the freckles scattered across it. Miss Granger was looking away, no doubt horrified to be caught breaking school rules.

"In fact," he murmured silkily as he caught the flash of a prefect badge. "I had forgotten that you are both prefects. Make it twenty points. Each."

The boy made a move as if to protest, but Severus held up his hand, gathering his features into a sneer. "Keep your stupid mouth closed, boy—or have you not learned that lesson yet tonight? Another word from you and it will be _fifty_ points each. Prefect status is a responsibility and a privilege, which I expect you to honor. If I catch you breaking school rules like this again, I will do everything in my power to assure that you are stripped of that privilege. You will proceed to Gryffindor tower this moment and resume your duties. You had no right to leave the Great Hall before the end of the Feast."

His eyes moved over them both, and one corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. Weasley had gotten to his feet and was doing his utmost to inconspicuously adjust his robes before anybody noticed the effect their rendezvous had apparently had on him. "Really, Miss Granger," Severus murmured with a tone of superior malice that rivaled Lucius Malfoy's. "Trading Potter for Weasley? I thought you had better taste."

The success of that particular insult, he decided triumphantly, would justify the close attention he had paid to their argument earlier. Weasley made as if to charge him and the girl only just succeeded in holding him back, ordering him in a harsh whisper to keep his mouth closed and not get them in any worse trouble than they already were.

"Wise advice, Miss Granger." He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. "I will expect you in my office tomorrow during your free period to begin your—private instruction." He caressed the words with an insolent hint of sensuality, unable to resist a final tweak to Weasley's composure.

The boy jerked angrily in her arms at that, and Severus imagined that if she hadn't been there to restrain him, he might actually have been attacked. Then again, if she hadn't been there, there would have been no reason to go out of his way to make them angry.

"He's just baiting you, Ron. Let it go," she hissed. Severus smirked. She really was one of the smarter witches he'd ever taught. He kept his ground as she led the boy away.

It really was both far too easy and far too satisfying to bait a Weasley. He was sure that the boy would abuse him to her for hours before finally running out of steam, which served his purposes perfectly. It was pleasant to vent his stress on them; he found himself almost looking forward to tomorrow. As long as he could keep her at arm's length, he would be safe no matter what their bond.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Before you all ask, I made Hermione and Ron prefects because I think Neville's defense of the school, his continuation of the DA, and his refusal to abandon the other students after he had to go into hiding all make him incredibly deserving of the post of Head Boy. Since JKR made it clear that students can be appointed Head Boy and Girl without previously having been prefects, I decided to give Neville the honor (Luna, I think, is Head Girl. She's a 7th year, so she qualifies). Yeah, Harry killed Voldemort and Ron and Hermione helped find and destroy the Horcruxes, but that has more to do with the world in general and less to do with the school. However, they were prefects before and McGonagall couldn't just ignore their contribution. 

This was a hard chapter to write. I needed to show that all of them are grieving and emotionally damaged to some degree, but everyone is expressing it differently. This is one reason I found JKR's 19-years-later epilogue to be so irritating. You don't go through experiences like that and come out unchanged and go on to have all of your relationships turn out just exactly the way you thought they would before you fought off a mass-murderer who thoughtlessly slaughtered lots of people you love.

Reviewers, you bring me joy. I am addicted to you. Don't stop. Please. The more reviews you leave me, the sooner I will get to the Snape/Hermione romance aspect of the story. How's that for a deal?

There should be another chapter tomorrow, but there was a death in the family today, so no promises about how much longer I'll be keeping up the chapter-a-day pace.


	15. Lesson One

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 15: Lesson One**

* * *

Hermione and Ron sat by the Common Room fireplace, talking in low, intense tones. Ron was pacing back and forth, but Hermione was curled up in an armchair, slowly turning pages in her battered copy of _Hogwarts, A History. _When he spoke, she answered without even looking up from her book. Occasionally, she glanced over her shoulder. The Common Room was by no means empty, although their fellow students were maintaining a polite distance from them.

"I don't _care_, Hermione. He's got no right to talk about you like that!"

"Ron, he didn't talk about me 'like' anything. He only said I was starting private lessons with him tomorrow—"

"—Exactly! Don't remind me, Hermione, I don't want to think about it. My skin crawls every time I do. You should report him to McGonagall."

"He didn't say anything inappropriate, Ron."

"It was the _way_ he said it, Hermione, and you know it."

"Tell everyone in the Common Room about it, why don't you? I'm sure they'd love an encore after your wonderful performance at dinner."

"Don't you even _care_?"

She turned a page, tightening her lips momentarily before she answered: "He didn't say anything wrong, and you ought to know by now not to let him get a rise out of you."

Ron grunted angrily jabbed his wand into the center of the fireplace. Flames suddenly blazed from the dying embers of the fire, casting a flickering orange light over both of them. "You know, I was almost prepared to believe that it was all just an act, all these years of Snape the bastard. I really was. But the war's over. You-Know-Who is dead, and he's still just the same. And if Snape's going to be just the same, I see no reason why I should change my opinion of him."

"Because your opinion was based on the assumption that he's a Death Eater."

"He _is_!"

"Ronald, even Harry gave that one up. You're just going to have to cope with the fact that being on the right side doesn't automatically guarantee that someone is a nice person."

"Forty points on our first day, just because we're Gryffindors—"

"We were breaking rules, Ron. Besides, he was right. As prefects, it's our duty to set a good example and we were hardly doing that." She turned another page, sounding bored. They'd been talking for nearly an hour, going around the same handful of points over and over again, and it had long since gotten tiresome.

"Do you mean to tell me that you honestly think if he caught Malfoy snogging some Slytherin cow in the halls he would have docked that many points on the first night of school?"

"Go ahead and discuss it with all of Gryffindor, Ron, since you aren't willing to lower your voice" she snapped. "But leave me out of it. We're going around in circles. I'm not going to report him to Headmistress McGonagall just because _you_ didn't happen to like his tone of voice and you feel guilty about being caught doing something you knew you shouldn't be doing."

He looked wounded. "You say that like you weren't enjoying it."

"Whether or not I was enjoying it has nothing to do with anything!"

He flashed her a rakish grin, draping one arm over the mantel and seeming to puff up in a way that reminded her disturbingly of Gilderoy Lockhart. She pretended not to notice. "You _did_ like it, then."

"I just told you, it's beside the point. I'm not going to report him, and I'm not going to change my mind. I still think you're overreacting."

"Maybe kissing me wasn't the only thing you liked," he shot back, his voice going hard.

She raised her eyebrows incredulously, actually looking up from her book this time. He had taken on an unfamiliar remoteness, and his eyes were flashing angrily. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean I think maybe you liked the way he talked about you. You think I haven't noticed what's going on, Hermione? Anybody in their right mind would be complaining about getting stuck with Snape for private lessons and you've barely said a word about it. You fancy him, don't you? Tell the truth!" The last words rang out commandingly, in a voice not at all like the one he usually used. She shook her head in disbelief.

"You're mad. It was bad enough when you were saying these sorts of ridiculous things about Harry, but now Professor Snape, Ron? Listen to yourself." She slammed the book shut, her face flushed with anger. "What, in Merlin's name, is the matter with you?"

Angrily, he jabbed his wand at the fire again, and the flames roared even higher, crackling loudly and sending uncomfortable waves of heat into the already-warm room.

"Stop it," she said shortly. He thrust his hands angrily into his pockets, staring into the flames. Slowly, Hermione became aware that nobody else was speaking. The handful of other students still left in the Common Room were staring at them with unmasked curiosity.

She nearly resolved to get up and simply walk away several times before he finally spoke. When he did, he was far more subdued.

"I'm sorry. Again." He kept his back to her and his voice so soft that she could barely hear it over the still-roaring flames. "I just don't like it that you're going to be spending so much time alone with him."

"Because there's so much I can do about that," she muttered, sounding tired. "You win. Go shout at him some more. That will fix everything, and then at the next Order meeting he can sit next to your mother and tell her all about his reasons for docking points in the first place, if he hasn't petitioned to have you expelled by then."

"Mum wouldn't mind me snogging you," he said defensively, but he turned around to look at her and she knew he'd given in. There was something in his face that both pained and frightened her—a defeated, world-weary expression that seemed very unsuited to Ronald Weasley.

She stood up, slipping the book into the pocket of her robes. "I'm going to bed. I suggest you do the same, as you seem to be quite overtired." In spite of the control she was exercising over it, her voice was beginning to get a little shrill, and she felt tears burning her eyes. "If you really want me around as much as you claim to do, I suggest that you decide whether or not you think you can trust me. If you can't, you might as well start looking for a different girlfriend, because I've been through too much this year to put up with behavior like this. An hour ago you said you loved me. Maybe you ought to start behaving like it's the truth."

She turned and ran up the stairs before he could answer, before he could see the tears begin to slip down her cheeks. Lavender and Parvati were already asleep when she made it to the dormitory, and she undressed as quietly as she could, crawling into her bed and crying into her pillow until she fell asleep.

0 0 0

The first day of classes arrived far too soon, and Hermione awoke feeling groggy and un-rested. Slowly, the memory of the previous evening's two fights with Ron filtered back into her memory and she sighed, rubbing her eyes and staring at the curtains hanging heavily around her bed. Suddenly, getting up and returning to classes was the last thing she wanted to do. Her bed was comfortable, she was exhausted, and as long as she left the curtains closed, she could pretend that the outside world didn't exist; that there were no fights with Ron, no tension between Harry and Ginny, no dead friends.

"Hermione?" The curtains parted, and Ginny's head appeared. She looked worried. "I heard you and Ron fighting last night. Are you okay?"

She sat up, attempting to run her fingers through her hair. It had come loose in the night, and her fingers got stuck less than an inch from her hairline, encountering a mass of tangles that would take ages to properly get rid of. It didn't make her any more inclined to be cheerful.

"Ron's the one who isn't okay. Where does he get off talking to me that way?" All of her anger was coming back, and she was torn between wanting to stay in her room until classes began, and wanting to run down to the Great Hall for the sole purpose of flinging eggs and toast at his face.

"I know, I know," said Ginny, quickly and soothingly. "He's a git." She wrinkled her nose, pulling the curtains open wider and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are you going to split up with him, then?"

Hermione pulled her hair back into her customary severe bun, twisting it at the nape of her neck and hoping that the knots she hadn't bothered to untangle would be mistaken merely for curls. Not that she really cared anyway. Ron never commented on her appearance, and nobody else expected her to look good. She wasn't sure at all how to answer Ginny's question.

"What happened with you and Harry?"

Ginny smiled wryly. "So you don't know what you're going to do. Just let me know when you decide, will you? It would be nice to have some warning if I need to avoid him for a few months."

She almost laughed. "That's fair. Does ignoring my question mean that things went well, or that they went badly?"

"Oh, you know." Ginny picked at the coverlet idly, trying not to grin. "We worked a few things out. I told him if he so much as looked at Lavender Brown again I'd hex his bollocks off, and he agreed that was a fair and reasonable stance for me to take."

Hermione snorted, and Ginny jumped up off the bed, grabbing her hands and pulling her along. "Get dressed and let's eat. Ron's already gone down. I heard him in the Common Room asking Harry about using the Invisibility Cloak to sneak off to Honeyduke's and buy you chocolates."

"Have they reopened?"

"I don't know, but there's the one passage that opens right into the basement. Even if they're closed, I bet he reckons he can sneak in and nick something for you."

Hermione got dressed. She'd long since packed her knapsack neatly with all of her textbooks and several new rolls of parchment, and she picked it up, hefting it over her shoulder thoughtfully. It really was good to be back, she thought. The first day of school was always her favorite. It was filled with promise and excitement, and not yet tainted by the drudgery of constant lectures and studying. Not, she thought as she followed Ginny down the stairs, that studying had ever bothered her.

0 0 0

Breakfast was predictably crowded. The first day of classes managed to draw students who, in a few weeks, would be incapable of dragging themselves from bed early enough to eat breakfast before dashing off to classes. As Ginny had said, Ron and Harry were already there, steadily working their way through plates piled high with food.

"Don't you ever stop eating?" Ginny asked in a bright voice, dropping into a seat beside Harry and taking a piece of toast from his plate.

"I reckon if I keep my mouth full of food, there's less room for my feet," said Ron thickly, reaching for his pumpkin juice. He was avoiding Hermione's eye, but Harry jostled him meaningfully and he flushed, setting his cup down and making an effort to look at her.

"I'm-sorry-I-flew-off-the-handle-last-night-you-have-every-right-to-be-angry-with-me-and-it-won't-happen-again," he said in a rush. Hermione set down the flagon of pumpkin juice she had just about to pour, and looked at him in surprise.

"Really?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He nodded sheepishly, pushing a bit of egg around on his plate. "I was right out of line, 'Mione. Give me another chance?"

He looked so alone, she thought. His face reminded her irrepressibly of a lost puppy that she and Harry had found wandering down the street near Grimmauld Place earlier that summer. Her heart went out to him. It was hard enough for her to cope with Fred's death, and Ron had kept so quiet about it that she hadn't really thought much about what it must be like for him. She didn't like it at all when they fought, and for once he was actually admitting that he was at fault and apologizing.

"Fine," she said briskly. There was no point in torturing him, after all. "Let's see your class list."

Relieved, he passed her a piece of parchment and she scanned it thoughtfully. "Potions, Defense, Herbology and Transfiguration. You placed in seventh year for everything. Well done."

"Not Charms?" Harry asked, reaching for the parchment and reading it curiously.

"No, I've got private lessons with Flitwick, remember? I reckon you're out of Transfiguration, too. And that means Hermione's exempt from Defense. I'd say you're lucky, but I'd take Snape in a classroom over Snape in his office any day."

She frowned, pulling out her own class list and checking something. "No," she said slowly. "I'm not exempt."

"You're down for Defense _and_ private lessons with Snape? What are they trying to do, scare you into leaving school again?" Harry, who was apparently in quite a grabby mood, snatched away her class list and read it for himself. "Astronomy, Charms, Herbology, History of Magic, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Defense Against the Dark Arts--Wait a minute…you aren't continuing in Potions? It's not as though you aren't good enough, you're brewing the—"

Comprehension dawned on Harry and Ron's faces at almost the same time. Ginny suddenly became very interested in her bacon, and Hermione swiftly grabbed her class list back.

"Why with Snape?" Ron demanded angrily. "Why not Slughorn?"

"_Professor_ Snape," Hermione answered, sighing. "And I don't know why not Slughorn. Maybe he isn't giving private instruction. If you'd only think for a moment, you'd realize that this whole matter of private lessons with him is good for us, anyway."

Harry stared. "How is this good for us, Hermione?"

She glanced around the table, raising her eyebrows and giving him a significant look. "I'd prefer not to discuss it here, Harry. I'll tell you later. Anyway, it's time to go. I've got to see Snape, and you don't want to be late for Potions on the first morning back!"

Ron shook his head, picking up his bag as they rose to go to class. "She's never going to make sense, is she?"

Harry started to answer, but Ginny stood up too quickly and lost her balance, tripping over him and effectively silencing him until Hermione was out of earshot.

0 0 0

He forced himself to sit at his desk, immobile. He had been unable to sleep the night before, bothered by dreams. He scowled as he remembered. He was slipping, if he was having dreams, and he was determined not to let it happen again. The Dark Lord might have been vanquished, but there were still those out there with the power to practice Legilimency on him, and he was not interested in letting his guard down, even for a moment. Not until he was sure every last ally of the Dark Lord had been brought down.

He was aware that it was paranoid to fear that any of his enemies might be able to practice distance Legilimency on him, but paranoia had kept him safe for many years. Unbidden, a memory came to him—Poppy mentioning something about shared dreams between people whose souls had been joined. The nagging anxiety that refused to completely disappear returned in full force. More than anything else, it was this anxiety which worried him. Anxiety was an instinct he had learned to cultivate, and when it was this persistent, he was rarely lead astray.

The thought made his heart sink, and his stomach clenched sickeningly. It was absurd, he thought, that a man who had looked Lord Voldemort in the eye and dared to lie could be so intimidated by the thought of facing a mere girl for a few lessons. He needed to consult Dumbledore, and he drew a blank scrap of parchment from his desk, scribbling a request to that effect on it. Tossing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire, he dropped the note into it, directing it to Minerva's office.

When he had done this, he sat down and looked around, checking to ensure that everything was prepared for their first lesson. There was a clock on his office wall, which he checked with scrupulous regularity. A half-finished syllabus lay on his desk, and a quill lay beside it. There was no point in drafting a complete course of study for her until they'd had time to go over her knowledge in more thorough detail. Knowing Granger, she'd be over-prepared and it would be a waste of his time to give her lectures on portions of her text that she'd already committed fully to memory.

These things always ended up being a waste of time somehow, he felt. Normally it was because his pupils were inevitably thickheaded and unprepared. In this case, it would be because she was overeager and had already read so far ahead that there was little point in wasting his energy on instruction. Still, it would be a welcome novelty, dealing with a student who was not entirely uninformed.

He tried to tell himself that he was not apprehensive about spending time alone with her. His success at angering Ron Weasley the night before had given him confidence, and he felt sure of his ability to alienate her and keep her at arm's length. After so many years spent in doing so with others, it was second nature to him. He felt it would probably take more effort _not_ to do so, at that point. And yet, the nagging doubts refused to disappear completely.

The brisk knock came on his door five minutes ahead of the appointed time, as he had anticipated it would. He folded his hands on his desk.

"Come."

0 0 0

She stopped before she knocked, reaching a hand up to ensure that her hair was still neatly (well, as neatly as possible) twisted at the nape of her neck, and that her uniform was neat an orderly. Straightening her robes, she tilted her chin up slightly and knocked firmly on his door.

"Come."

More than anything else, it was the sound of his voice that brought home the reality of being back at Hogwarts. She opened the door and there he was, sitting impassively at his desk and looking for all the world as though the events of the last year had never taken place at all. She was just Hermione Granger, know-it-all Gryffindor, back at school on the first day of classes. In a way, she thought, it was strangely comforting, and when he gestured towards a hard, straight-backed chair, she sat down immediately, setting her bag on the floor beside her.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly. "In spite of the fact that it will force me to be redundant, I am required to go over the reasons why you have been assigned to private instruction with me. You tested far above expectations in the field of Potions. I hope I will not offend you too greatly when I express the surprise I felt when I discovered this information." He leaned forward, and his eyes pierced her so completely that she felt almost physically aware of his scrutiny. "Although I am aware of your academic… achievements… I have never before been struck with the impression that you are particularly inspired by the art of potion making. I seem, however, to have been mistaken."

She looked at him uncertainly, not quite able to decide whether or not to be offended with his statement. His face was inscrutable, and his tone was—well, it was the same as Professor Snape's tone of voice always was. He was cold, sarcastic, and malicious. But he was all of those things even when paying a compliment and she had long ago realized that it was foolhardy to judge Professor Snape by the tone of his voice.

"You are perhaps wondering why your continuing education in Potions has been assigned to me and not to Professor Slughorn." He paused long enough for her to nod in affirmation, which he acknowledged with an almost imperceptible nod of his own. "Professor Slughorn no longer desires to continue teaching at Hogwarts. As your friend Potter may have told you, it was with great reluctance that he agreed to come out of retirement at all. By staying on as a professor last year at my request, he already extended his tenure beyond the original understanding he reached with Headmaster Dumbledore. Headmistress McGonagall was unable to locate a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher in sufficient time to begin the new year. Professor Slughorn agreed to retain his post for one more year in order to allow me to fill the slot while she searches for a more permanent appointment."

He paused long enough to pick up his quill and begin sharpening it, shaving tiny slivers off the end with a short, silver knife. "One of his terms for this agreement was that he would do no more than the bare minimum. For this reason, Professor Sinistra agreed to take over his responsibilities as Head of Slytherin House, and I have been given the duty of tutoring you."

"Er… Professor?" she asked curiously. He paused, the blade of his knife poised against the quill. "Don't you mean you've been given the duty of tutoring all students who placed above their year in Potions?"

He moved the knife with a slow, deliberate stroke, returning his gaze to the quill as a thin splinter separated from the edge and fell to the desk, leaving behind a perfectly sharp point. "There were few students in general who tested above their classmates to such a degree that it was felt it would be unfair to leave them in class. You, Miss Granger, are the only student to do so in this particular subject."

The old Hermione would have practically keeled over with rapture at news like that. The new Hermione was only intimidated. She didn't feel at all convinced of her superiority to anyone in the subject.

"In fact," he murmured sardonically. "The faculty considered removing you from _all_ of your classes for similar reasons, but it was felt by some that you were in need of the socialization with your peers." His lip curled in distaste.

It occurred to her that she had yet to respond to this, and she thought for a moment before finally answering:

"Oh."

He didn't seem impressed with her eloquence. "Quite. Now that we have dispensed with those unpleasant preliminaries, we shall move on. You have your textbook, Miss Granger?"

She immediately dove into her bag and pulled out a copy of _Philosophy of Potions & Poisons_, pristine except for the telltale creases in the binding that indicated the amount of time she'd already spent reading it. He looked almost pained at her eagerness.

"Having been your teacher for nearly seven years, Miss Granger, I know I do not need to ask how much of the text you have already studied, but rather how many times you have read it cover to cover."

She blushed. "Well, only once actually, as I've been quite busy this summer. But I did read my favorite chapters several times. I particularly enjoyed chapter fifteen—_Arithmancy and Its Use in Potions-Making_. I've read that one five or six times, at least. And chapter twenty-one--"

Had he not held up one hand to stop her, she undoubtedly would have continued. Instead, she fell silent again as he reached into his desk and pulled out several pages of parchment, extending them to her.

"Put it away, Miss Granger. For this lesson, you will need only a quill." Looking slightly crestfallen, she returned the book to her bag and took the parchment without looking at it, waiting for his instructions.

"That parchment contains a comprehensive set of questions, covering all course content as it is currently being taught by Professor Slughorn. If you look over your left shoulder, you will see that the Headmistress has provided a desk for your convenience. I will alert you at the end of the period, and you will return that to me, at which time I will grade it and construct a final syllabus for the rest of the year based on your performance. As you are no doubt aware, the nature of your examination this summer was such that I was unable to determine the full extent of your knowledge, and therefore unable to finalize your course of study. There will be no need to talk. Begin."

0 0 0

He watched her unblinkingly as she wrote. It was too early in the year to have marking with which to busy himself and he had long since completed his preparations for teaching Defense. He was intimately familiar with the textbook, and had no need to even skim through it for refreshment.

So he watched her. It was his first opportunity to really scrutinize her with a clear mind, and he took his time about it. She chewed on her lip as she wrote, a habit which had always irritated him for its similarity to Lily. Her hair, which he was used to thinking of as dull and quite bushy, had been tamed into some sort of wild knot at the back of her neck. When combined with the weight she had lost in the last year, the austerity of her hairstyle aged her a great deal. The more he looked, the more he decided that she didn't look like a teenager at all. He recalled something about the use of a time-turner during her third year, and he wondered how much it had aged her.

She shuffled the pages of her exam quietly, and then the scratching of her quill resumed. He felt reasonably sure she would know nearly all of the theory already, which meant that their class would be little more than a Potions lab and a series of essays about theory. Seventh-year Potions was always a small class, and a difficult one to teach. Students were expected to create a new potion of their own devising by the end of the year, based on the knowledge they had acquired of the theory of ingredients and their combinations.

There was only so long he could spend in close examination of Hermione Granger before he began to feel that he had seen all there was to see, and he allowed his mind to wander. The summer had kept him very busy, leaving him with little time for reflection. He had set aside most of the events surrounding his near-death until such a time as he was able to consider them with the proper care and attention.

Lily had set him free. He picked up his quill and turned it slowly in his fingers. He had yet to decide what he felt about that. To spend so many years blindly devoted to one woman and then wake up one morning to find that those feelings had been magically enhanced in order to manipulate you into acting for the good of the Wizarding world—well, 'cognitive dissonance' barely began to sum it up.

He still loved her, he knew, but the love had changed dramatically. The obsession was gone. He tested the point of his quill with his fingertip, frowning. The war with Voldemort had tainted even the one thing in his life he had thought still pure. To a spy, Lucius had once said to him, nothing could be sacred. It was painful to realize how correct he'd been.

He did not know what he would do next. He supposed that he ought to grieve, somehow, to attempt to move on from the pathetic ruins of his supposed great love. There didn't seem to be a point. Memories of Lily had been his greatest consolation over the years, as well as his greatest torment. He had spent countless hours escaping from torture into the sweet dream of Lily's arms, Lily's lips, a life with Lily in which James Potter never featured.

Why had she insisted on offering him freedom? Why had he not been able to refuse? Even when bound to her, even when his heart was in agony over the constant memory of her, he had been able to take a kind of twisted joy in it. Some fierce thing in his heart had taken pleasure in that torment, in the secret knowledge that Severus Snape, the grim, twisted Slytherin, burned with a passionate love that rivaled the most tragic romance novels he'd ever confiscated during Potions lectures.

He was not pleased, he found, to have it snatched away by a dead woman. All that was left in its wake was a warm tenderness and a series of memories. They still made his heart ache, if he focused on them, but gone was the furious pain and guilt that had been his torment for so long. He had been in chains so long that he did not know what to do with freedom.

The clock hand moved and he regarded it with some surprise. Time had slipped away more quickly than he expected. He stood up, walking over to Miss Granger's desk and leaning over her, removing the parchment without a word.

"You will return in two days," he said, tossing the parchment carelessly onto his desk without so much as glancing at it. "Be prepared to work."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Oh dear readers, how can I thank you? Your kind comments and reviews have been both helpful and inspirational. To those of you who have expressed sympathy to me for the family death (my grandfather, who passed quite suddenly), thank you so much. It's a surprising comfort to know that there are strangers out there wishing me and my family well. 

To be honest, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. There are places I want to go with the characters, but I'm still working out how to get there from here. Once again, I'm mired in getting things set up before I can move on with the fun parts of the story. I hope you'll bear with this last little bit of semi-exposition. Drama between Ron and Hermione is fun though, right? I wanted to give them a plausible breakup.

I apologize if there are grammatical errors (or consistency errors, for that matter) in this chapter. Please point them out if you notice them. I normally write a chapter in a single sitting and then go back and edit the whole thing at once, to get it over with. I hate reading my own writing more than absolutely necessary. This one took me three or four attempts to finish, though, which might be why I dislike it so much.


	16. The Madness of Severus Snape

* * *

**Chapter 16: The Madness of Severus Snape**

* * *

It did not occur to Hermione until she was halfway to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom that it meant a second consecutive period spent with Professor Snape. She saw Harry and Ron walking ahead of her and jogged to catch up, thankful at least that she would be surrounded by other seventh-years this time. Although he'd been silent for nearly the entire lesson, that much time spent in such dour company exhausted her. He'd been in his regular silent, unpleasant mood, and it had begun to rub off on her by the time he'd relieved her of her exam and sent her away.

"How was Potions?" she asked, falling into step with her friends. Ginny was close behind, engaged in a conversation with Luna Lovegood that they couldn't quite hear.

"Just like sixth year, only Slughorn seemed sort of confused that Harry wasn't quite as brilliant as he remembered," Ron answered with a snicker. Harry looked disgruntled.

"If only we had the Prince's copy of _Philosophy of Potions & Poisons_," he said, a hint of longing in his voice. "I didn't do too badly though. I think all that reading in sixth year did some lasting good. Must be why Hermione does it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Harry, why bother calling him the Prince? We all know it was Professor Snape's book."

Ron snorted as they pushed through the crowd hovering around the door of the Defense classroom and walked in. "He tries not to think about that too much, Hermione, didn't you know? Blimey. Hasn't changed his taste in decorating much, has he?"

The Defense classroom looked much as Hermione remembered last seeing it. The windows were covered, and the walls were lit by sickly torches, whose greenish-yellow light fell across a series of gruesome paintings of curses and their effects. Ron and Harry hung back, but Hermione forced them to find seats with her near the front of the classroom. They slid into their desks, looking around uncomfortably. The air in the room felt dank and cave-like, as though Snape were having it filtered up from the dungeons on purpose to ensure that nobody could quite get comfortable.

Other students were filtering in as well. Those who had attended the previous year actually seemed relieved at the current appearance of the classroom, and Hermione wondered fleetingly how bad it had been when the Carrows were in charge. Had she not already known who was Pureblood and who was Muggle-Born, she would have been able to tell quickly based on their reactions to the décor. Anybody who viewed this as a welcome change had to have been through hell.

"Where are Draco and Neville?" Nearly every seat was full, and she had seen no sign of either of them. "Neville's actually good at Defense, don't tell me he dropped it."

"No," said Harry. "Private lessons. I feel even worse for him than I do for you."

"Draco must still be in the hospital wing," Ron supplied. "I've no idea what he did wrong, but he made an absolute mess of this weird potion from India that Slughorn had us working on. Wound up with six extra arms."

Before Hermione could respond, the door creaked open and Professor Snape entered.

She was not an overly introspective person, but Hermione was, in general, acutely aware of her various failings. What she was most aware of in that moment was the fact that in all of her life, she would never be as good at making an entrance as Professor Snape was.

Although he entered with almost complete silence, the force of his presence was enough to alert all of them that he had Arrived (she couldn't help thinking of it with a capital A). His wand was out, and his robes fluttered and swayed about him with a life of their own as he stalked down the center of the classroom to the board.

He spun on his heel, the robes swirling around him as he did so. His eyes glittered in the sickly light, and his face jutted out from the greasy shroud of his hair like a malevolent vulture. He tapped the board with his wand, and the words 'Defense Against the Dark Arts' began to appear in his spiky, cramped handwriting.

_No, _she corrected herself. _He looks too young to be a vulture__. Something sinister, though…maybe some kind of falcon._

Crossing his arms over his chest and assuming the dominatnig stance that all of his students associated with him, he surveyed the classroom. It was absolutely silent. Some people had to work at maintaining control of a classroom. Professor Snape merely had to _be_.

"I confess I am surprised to see so many students in this class," he said softly. Hermione was glad she'd insisted on finding seats near the front of the room; she could hear the rustle of robes as students sitting further back leaned forward and strained to hear.

"It has been said that your education in this subject has been woefully inconsistent. That was an apt, if understated, assessment. I marvel at the fact that any of you achieved satisfactory marks in your Ordinary Wizarding Levels, and I am even more surprised that, after the slightly biased approach of your last professor, any of you were capable of testing into a seventh-level class."

There were a few murmurs of indignation at this. Seamus Finnegan seemed to think that Professor Snape's habit of understatement had just culminated in a personal insult. "Slightly biased?" he asked irately. "_Slightly_ biased? The class was being taught by a bloody Death Eater!"

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Finnegan," he answered coolly. "I will not have interruptions in my class, as you ought to know by this point in your education. As I said, the _slightly_ biased approach of your last professor in the subject. I disagree in fundamentals with your ex-professor's personal beliefs and alliances, but in one thing, Alecto Carrow was absolutely correct."

He paused, perhaps for dramatic emphasis, but perhaps to allow time for the second wave of indignant muttering and rustling to die down.

"Like Bartemius Crouch Jr. before him, Alecto Carrow understood something fundamental about the Dark Arts—something that none of your other professors, with the exception of myself, has been able to grasp." There was a snort, but Hermione couldn't identify the source. She wasn't really interested in doing so; Professor Snape had captured her attention entirely. It seemed that the same could be said for a majority of the class, because the mutterers were now being loudly shushed.

"You _cannot_ expect to effectively defend yourself against the Dark Arts in the real world unless you know beforehand what to expect. Crouch understood this and demonstrated Unforgivable curses to you. Carrow understood this and forced you to curse one another, thereby forcing you into an intimate understanding of the effects of Dark Magic that is impossible to impart through any other method. It is an unfortunate truth that in spite of being Death Eaters, they did a far better job than most at preparing you to face your enemies. Potter!"

Harry started. "Yes, sir?"

"Your Patronus takes the form of a stag." It was not a question.

"Yes, sir."

"Up here, Potter, and cast it."

Harry shrugged helplessly at Hermione, Ron, and the class in general as he proceeded to the front of the classroom. Raising his wand, he pointed it at an unoccupied corner and said clearly and emphatically: "_Expecto Patronum_!"

The familiar stag leapt gracefully from the tip of his wand, going still almost immediately and standing in front of him, as though waiting for his instructions. The class burst into enthusiastic applause and the stag stepped up to Harry, dropping its head as though to nuzzle his hand.

"Five points, Potter. Return to your seat."

The stag disappeared as Harry turned to Professor Snape in indignation, holding his ground. "What was that for? I did exactly what you asked!"

"Precisely, Potter. Return to your seat."

"Not until you explain why you took five points when even _you_ admit I didn't do anything wrong."

Professor Snape raised one eyebrow with a quelling frown. "Ah. I see. I should have been clearer, as it appears that you have not yet mastered even a rudimentary understanding of anything so subtle as the language you have spoken for eighteen years. Five points _to Gryffindor_, Potter. Now return to your seat before I revoke them."

Harry returned to his seat.

Silence fell over the room once again. Hermione knew that every student in it was attempting to remember if there had ever been a time in previous history when Professor Snape had awarded points to a Gryffindor, let alone to Harry Potter. Inexplicably, she found herself feeling quite smug about it. There was a ghost of a smirk on the Professor's face, and she imagined that it gave him a great deal of pleasure to render his students so speechless.

"Does it _work_ when Snape gives points to Gryffindor?" asked Ron in a loud whisper. His question was answered only by a few nervous titters. Hermione was still watching Snape, who now looked decidedly amused.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Weasley, you will have to wait until the end of class before that question is answered," he said evenly.

Ron's face went red and he slumped low in his seat. Snape continued:

"By a show of hands, how many students in this room are capable of producing a corporeal Patronus?"

Hermione raised her hand. Nobody else moved. They seemed absolutely dumbstruck. She kicked Ron in the shin gently. He whimpered, but did not raise his hand.

Professor Snape sighed quietly. "I am well aware of Miss Granger's aptitude for over-achievement, but in this case I have reliable information that there are more than two students in this class who have mastered this particular skill. Raise your hands if you are amongst their number, or I will return to my source, obtain your names, and remove points as punishment for your reticence. When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered promptly and honestly."

Ron raised his hand, as did Lavender, Dean, Seamus and Ginny. Glancing over her shoulder, Hermione saw several other people raising their hands, and recognized them as students a year younger than them who had either been members of the original D.A. or refugees in the Room of Requirement with Neville. None of them were Slytherins.

"That," said Professor Snape smugly. "Is better. Five points to Gryffindor for finally answering a question at an appropriate moment, Miss Granger. May this first time not prove to also be the last."

The Slytherins would have laughed, had they not been so shocked and affronted at the idea of Snape awarding points to Gryffindor for any reason. As it was, there were only a few nervous chuckles from the Gryffindors, who seemed to be afraid that the other shoe was going to drop at any moment. A Professor Snape who gave points to Gryffindor was a Professor Snape who was dangerously unpredictable.

"How many of you have produced a Patronus in the presence of a Dementor?"

Only Harry raised his hand. The rest exchanged glances. This time, Professor Snape did not push for more responses.

"As I suspected. Mr. Potter, do you find it equally as easy to produce a Patronus in the presence of a Dementor as it is in this classroom?"

"No, sir."

"Indeed. It will do you little good to learn defensive theory, or even to practice the spells, as long as you continue to do so in such a comfortable environment." Hermione noticed a few students looking around in disbelief, although nobody was brave enough to point out that he seemed to have done everything in his power to ensure that their classroom was not comfortable in the slightest.

"If your spells only work in the classroom, you will fail this class. More importantly, you will face injury or death should you ever be forced into a confrontation with a rogue Death Eater or other dark wizard. If you have chosen to continue this class at NEWT level, it is to be assumed that you are considering a career that will involve dealings with practitioners of the Dark Arts."

He flicked his wand at the blackboard, which erased itself immediately. "I will not teach you how to use Dark magic, as I do not feel that you can be trusted with such knowledge. With the approval of the Headmistress, however, I will use curses in this class and you will be expected to defend yourselves. I will test you. I will stretch you. I fully expect that some of you will be injured as the year goes on. If you have previously thought my methods to be harsh, you will find that you underestimated me severely. If you feel that you are unable to cope with this, I give you the opportunity now to leave my classroom and never return."

Nobody moved. He gazed at the glass for a long moment. "Very well. We will begin with the first chapter of your text—the so-called Unforgivable Curses. Although you have been given a general summary of these curses, you do not yet have a full understanding of their hows and whys. We will begin with the Cruciatus curse. Miss Weasley, what does the text have to say about the physiological effects of this curse?"

0 0 0

"--I think the end of the war's finally driven him right off the edge. He's mad. It's the only explanation--"

The seventh-year Defense students were gathered into a tight knot of bodies just out of earshot from the door to the classroom they had just left. Snape had returned to his old, terrorizing self once his lecture had begun, and he'd baffled most of them with incredibly complex diagrams of the human nervous system and its susceptibility to certain forms of magic.

"--Keeping us on our toes. Next thing you know he's going to be docking points from Slytherins, but once we've gotten used to it, he'll pull the rug out and go back to being the same old git. Don't ever take it for granted, or you'll be playing right into his hand—"

"—No, _really_. I reckon he's gone _mad_—"

"—Should check and see if the points actually made it to the hourglass—"

"—Actually going to _use_ curses on students? And McGonagall's going to let him do it? If anyone's gone mad, it's her—"

"—Sad, really. All those years as a spy and it's peacetime that finally cracked him—"

Hermione pushed her way through the crowd until she found Ron and Harry. "We're going to be late for Herbology if we don't run for it, let's go." The comments were irritating her, although she was abstractly aware that they shouldn't. It was only to be expected that after a lesson filled with so many surprises, students would gossip. Still, she didn't like it.

0 0 0

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Word of the points awarded to Potter and Granger gradually filtered through the school. He was, admittedly, somewhat surprised to discover that, if anything, his students regarded him with more fear and uncertainty than ever after discovering his capacity for generosity. He accepted the development as a blessing, and made the most of it. Let them be uncertain and wary. Wary students were attentive students, and if he could cultivate their wariness through generosity as well as through severity, all the better. He added it to the list of tools in his arsenal.

At dinner, Minerva found an opportunity to lean over to him and communicate briefly and quietly that her office would be vacant for the rest of the evening if he wished to speak with Dumbledore. As Deputy Headmaster he had full access to the office even when others didn't, and although he was not the type to take advantage of such access frequently, he knew that in this case he needed it. Months had gone by since his encounter—if it could be called that—with Lily, and time had only increased his doubts and questions, rather than dispelling them.

There was nobody else to ask. For the umpteenth time, he wished that Albus Dumbledore were still alive. A portrait was better than nothing, but it was no true replacement for the man himself. In spite of his years of conflict with Dumbledore, the old man had understood a great deal about him; more, perhaps, than anybody else living. That understanding, in combination with the Headmaster's vast store of magical knowledge, was something Severus had come to value, even if he admitted it to no one other than himself.

When he had completed his meal, he rose from the table, nodded to his fellow teachers, and headed straight for Minerva's office. Muttering the password to the stone gargoyle, he stepped onto the stairs and let them carry him upwards.

"Severus," said Albus' voice before he was even through the door. "Minerva said I ought to expect a visit from you."

"Dumbledore." He noticed a few other portraits pretending to be asleep while peering at him through squinted eyes. A year ago, it would have bothered him (and did). By now, however, he'd grow used to it, and he carefully put them out of his mind.

"What is the trouble, my friend?"

Had he been of Miss Granger's ilk, he would have bitten his lip. He was still not entirely accustomed to being addressed as 'friend' by a man he'd murdered, however good his justifications for committing said murder.

"There are things we must discuss, Headmaster," he said gruffly, drawing up a chair. Dumbledore folded his hands over his beard, peering down at him through his half-moon spectacles.

"You are not aware, perhaps," remarked the Headmaster conversationally. "That it is very frustrating to be imbued with memories and personality that do not actually belong to you."

Sitting ramrod straight, Severus felt his mouth twist as an angry snarl escaped him. "How apropos your statement is, Headmaster. I have spoken with a mutual friend of ours, and I confess myself distressed by what she has revealed to me."

"A mutual friend, Severus? What a pity you did not bring her along to discuss the matter with me."

"It would be impossible to do so. She is dead." He lowered his eyes, scowling bitterly. The words did not cost him as much to say as they might have in the past, but his anguish over Lily was habitual as well as magical, and speaking of her was not yet entirely easy.

Albus gazed down at him gravely. Severus thought he heard a few other portraits whispering to each other, but the noise was almost imperceptible. He ignored it, and instead kept his eyes studiously on his feet.

"I see," the dead Headmaster said softly. "Perhaps this is a mutual friend who has been dead for quite some time? A number of years, maybe?"

His hand jerked spasmodically and he closed it into a fist, drawing a deep breath. "Lily Evans."

"Lily Potter, Severus." His voice was gentle. Severus did not react to the correction.

"She came to me when I was—unconscious."

"You were dying, boy," interjected a voice, quite briskly.

"Phineas, I am sure Severus would prefer this conversation to be private. As I cannot leave this room or compel you to do so, I must ask you to be quiet and at least allow us to preserve the illusion of solitude."

Perhaps because he was so used to following Albus' orders in life, Phineas Nigellus closed his mouth, although he could not seem to help the indignant sniff that escaped him as he did. From the corner of his eye, Severus could see him watching, his face the stern, slightly unpleasant mask that it always was.

"Unfortunately," he admitted grudgingly to Dumbledore. "I have reason to believe that he is correct. From what Poppy told me, it is an unexpected blessing that I am alive at all." He was incapable of stopping the biting sarcasm that colored every word.

"What did Lily say, dear boy?"

He raised his eyes to the portrait, tense with suppressed anger. "She said, Albus, that I have spent eighteen years magically bound to her and that you knowingly allowed it to happen in order to manipulate me into protecting her brat."

A hush fell over the room. The sibilant white noise of the whispering headmasters disappeared; the air seemed to grow heavier with each passing second as Dumbledore merely looked at him. The old man had pity in his eyes. _Pity_. As if pity were what Severus was after. No, it was not pity he wanted, but explanations. Justifications. Apologies.

"I imagine, Severus, that she did not say those exact words. Lily is not a liar. Your anger with me is coloring your interpretation of the information she gave you. Really, you ought to know better."

He clenched his fist tighter, feeling his fingernails beginning to tear through the skin of his palm. "Do you deny it then?"

Albus sighed softly, removing his spectacles and beginning the slow process of cleaning imaginary dust from their lenses. "Not entirely."

"I like you better as a portrait. You are far less given to prevarication."

"I have no reason not to be forthright in this matter."

"Of course you have no reason for it now! Your purpose has been accomplished! Once again you have successfully used me as your tool and now you throw a bone of truth to me and expect me to take it with gratitude? Have you always failed to understand that your machinations affect human lives, Albus, or is it only when dealing with repentant Death Eaters? I cannot remove the mark, but it cannot remove my humanity!" He was not a shouting man, in normal circumstances. But his circumstances had ceased to be normal the moment he was visited and disenchanted by a dead woman even as a chit of a girl invaded his soul in order to snatch him away from a death he would have welcomed.

Dumbledore waited until he ceased shouting and then carefully returned his spectacles to his face, perching them on his crooked nose. "I confess, it is a weakness of mine to underestimate the effect my decisions will have on other people." His voice was infinitely sad, and the weight of his gaze was such that Severus had no choice but to look away again.

"I have spent the better part of my life living under the influence of the worst kind of lie. Had you used a potion on me, you could have been punished. If you were alive, I'd kill you again."

"If your judgement of the situation was accurate, I would not blame you for that death any more than the one you have already meted out to me." Severus swallowed and reminded himself that hexing the Headmaster's portrait would be an exercise in futility. "However," Dumbledore continued. "It is not."

"Do you deny what she told me, Headmaster? Shall I place the memory in the Pensieve so that you may hear the very words? How many times have you mocked me in the secrecy of this very room? How many times have you laughed at Snape, the dupe who labored under the delusion of a great love?" His voice nearly broke. Eighteen years of lies, which he had clung to as the sweetest and most heartbreaking truths. Eighteen years of self-abasement to a man who callously used him and twisted the most intimate secrets of his heart for his machinations.

"Your love has never been a delusion, Severus," answered Dumbledore gently. "Sit back down, you will wish to hear this. It is true; you were bound to Lily. Your guilt and your heartbreak remained acute even as the years should have dulled them, for you became hopelessly entangled with her, even in death. I did not act to reverse it. I _could_ not act. That freedom was not mine to bestow.

"It does not make your love a lie, Severus, or your faithfulness any less meaningful. Had you wished fervently enough to ignore the chains that Lily's death placed around you, I am sure you could have done so."

He leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. Albus watched him sympathetically. "I do not know who I am," he finally said, in a harsh, anguished whisper. The live Albus would have ventured to touch him--perhaps to lay a hand on his shoulder, or the top of his bowed head. The painted Albus could only watch.

"You are Severus Snape," Albus said, with an authority in his voice that made Severus believe it, somehow, although he was unsure of what it really meant. "A man who has loved deeply and served faithfully with no thought of reward to himself. You have faced your duty and fulfilled it unflinchingly. A lesser man, a hard-hearted man would not have been tied by his guilt as you have been. Your very chains were proof of your quality. Severus, can you not take joy in your freedom?"

He let out a soft and wretched moan, his fingers tangling in the greasy mess of his hair as they dug into his scalp. "I did not ask for freedom!"

"And yet it was granted to you, Severus. It is a gift. You have carried your pain like a precious thing, even as it poisoned you. Can you not learn to rejoice when you are healed?"

"I wish I were dead," he whispered, echoing words the Headmaster had heard him speak before. This time, though, there was no live Dumbledore to stay his hand if he should choose to act. The thought was both frightening and exhilarating.

"You are not ready for death, Severus."

"I am not fit for life!"

"Cease this foolishness!" ordered Dumbledore, sternly. The portrait seemed to swell with the Headmaster's anger, and his eyes flashed dangerously. For a second, Severus was afraid of him. Albus Dumbledore was a formidable man even when reduced to being a mere painting on canvas. "Were you ready for death, it would have come to you. It did not."

"Granger," he whispered plaintively. "It was Hermione Granger, Headmaster, not me. I was ready and she _interfered_. I was ready." He repeated the words, aware that he sounded pathetic; he was miserable past the point where he could care.

"What is this?" asked Dumbledore sharply. "What are you talking about?"

"She—kept me alive."

"Minerva told me she was responsible for having you brought to the hospital wing—"

"No," he interrupted. "After that. She kept me alive. Poppy…could not explain how. She believed me to have been beyond aid. The girl intervened."

"How?" the painted robes shifted as Albus leaned forward, watching him intently. "_How_, Severus?"

"I do not know! Neither does Poppy--nonverbal magic. She stayed by my side and it simply happened."

"_Coniugium Mentium Verarum_," whispered Dumbledore. This time the response from the other portraits was definitely audible, rustling up the walls in a wave that radiated outward from Dumbledore's.

"If you mean _Matrimonium Verus Mens—_"

Albus waved his hand impatiently. "Severus, your mother was a witch and you have lived in the thick of the Wizarding world for nearly thirty years. Surely by now you are capable of conjugating a simple Latin phrase."

"I did not invent the name, nor did I study the reason for the faulty Latin—"

"The reason stems from the fact that the enchantment itself is so rare that it cannot be found in all but the most esoteric literature and has survived primarily as a romantic figment of under-educated imaginations. Nevertheless, you ought to know better."

"I am not here to be lectured in Latin, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's lips twitched beneath his beard. "That is debatable, Severus, if you persist in mangling the language so completely."

"Sometimes things are deliberately misnamed, Headmaster. I do not presume to correct traditions when I do not know the reasons behind them."

"In this case, the tradition is one of ignorance, not of reverence. Let us cease this quibbling. _Coniugium _is the reasonable explanation. Given your lack of surprise, I can surmise that the possibility occurred to you before tonight. Have you discussed this with Poppy?"

Severus glanced around the room hesitantly before answering: "Yes."

"She agreed it was possible?"

"She felt it was unlikely, but not impossible."

Dumbledore pressed the pads of his fingers together, forming a steeple with his hands and raising it to his lips as he thought. "No, not impossible. Not, apparently, for you and Miss Granger."

He stood up, unable to contain his feelings any longer, and began to pace nervously. He could feel the eyes of every Hogwarts headmaster following him as he moved, and he closed his own eyes in an attempt to dispel the sensation. "It is absurd, Albus! Utterly laughable, to think such a thing could occur between myself and _any_ woman, much less a girl such as her. She's my student!"

"Your circumspection does you credit, Severus, but her student status is irrelevant to the compatibility of your respective souls and hearts. Rail against fate for as long as you like, but your choice was made when you allowed yourself to be brought back."

He turned abruptly and walked to the wall where Dumbledore's portrait hung, peering up at the Headmaster's face. "What do you mean, when I _allowed_ myself to be brought back?"

Phineas Nigellus snickered. "Not completely like the girl, obviously. Haven't studied up, have you, Professor Snape?"

"Phineas, please," said Dumbledore mildly. "Severus, however unconsciously you might have done so, you took part in your own return. The action cannot be undone. The only decision left to you is in what manner you will move forward."

"I refuse to spend another moment in her company."

"That is not an option."

"Then I will _make_ it an option! I categorically refuse to be anywhere near her."

"Honestly, Severus. Sit back down. Perhaps you ought to call a House Elf for a cup of tea—or would you prefer some Firewhiskey, perhaps? Minerva keeps a bottle of Old Ogden's in the left-hand desk drawer."

There was a lapse in conversation as Severus located the bottle and a glass, and poured himself a liberal portion. He did not drink, as a rule—he valued self-control far too much to indulge in alcohol to any significant degree. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Why are you so afraid of this young woman?"

He brought the glass to his lips, sipping the whiskey and making a face as it burned down his throat. "I am not afraid of her."

"No," agreed Dumbledore amusedly. "You are talking of running away from her because she does not frighten you in the slightest."

He growled. "I am merely interested in the girl's well-being. She will gain nothing by association with me."

"I have known you far too long to believe that excuse, Severus."

"...I do not like to be vulnerable."

"You have no choice but to be vulnerable. If you flee from it and attempt to ignore it, you will be ignorant of its power to hurt you."

He took another mouthful of whiskey with a resentful glance at Dumbledore, who politely looked the other way. "That is exactly the sort of speech I expected from you. Is the life of a portrait really so boring that you have nothing to do but come up with ridiculous platitudes to throw at those who come to you for counsel?"

"I am far too intelligent to ever be bored," replied Albus dryly. "You cannot escape this bond as you escaped your bond to Lily, Severus. You ought to make the best of it. She is the friend of your soul, someone to whom all of your secrets can be safely laid bare without fear. You might even find that you could enjoy her company."

Severus snorted loudly, staring into his empty glass and weighing the merits of pouring a second. "Severus Snape does not have friends."

"I will be sure not to mention that to Minerva and Poppy; they might be offended."

He stood up, casting a cleansing charm on the glass before returning glass and bottle to the desk. "I believe I have endured as much stimulating conversation as I can for one night."

"You are a free man, Severus. I hope you are brave enough to rediscover what that means."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Reviewers, you light up my life. Every word from you, readers, assures me that continuing to write this story is definitely worth it.

On Hermione saying Snape is "too young" to look like a vulture (vultures are all wrinkly and saggy and ew) - Although Alan Rickman is absolutely gorgeous and his voice is exactly what I imagine in my head when I'm writing Snape's dialogue, the truth is that canon Snape is actually not an old man at all. Harry's parents were in their early 20's when he was born, and Snape was Lily's age, meaning that he's barely 40, if that. Combine that with the fact that he's a wizard, and I can't imagine he looks terribly old. I have friends that age who can pass for 20 with ease, and they don't have magic on their side to keep them looking young. Still, he probably looks older than a lot of other wizards his age, because of everything he's been through. And Alan Rickman _is_ gorgeous.

On "_Coniugium Mentium Verarum"_ - Many thanks to JunoMagic for giving me the proper Latin translation for the term. Having a reviewer who actually knows Latin is far preferable to online translators, even if it does mean making up an excuse for why everyone in the story so far had it wrong.


	17. Living a Lie

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 17: Living a Lie**

* * *

The first week of school went by quickly. By Friday afternoon, Hermione felt as though she'd finally managed to adjust to being back at Hogwarts. It became easier to ignore the past, or at least to pretend that she was ignoring it. Some things, she felt, would be impossible to ever forget, but she kept them close and secret. There was no reason to keep them in the forefront of her mind, and it was easy to ignore them as long as she kept busy. 

She was in the library, writing a paper for Professor Snape when Harry and Ron found her.

"Hermione," said Harry in a low voice. "You've spent the whole week telling us you were too busy to talk. It's Friday now, you have a whole weekend to do homework. Talk to us."

They sat down on either side of her, and she sighed, laying her quill down and pointing her wand at the parchment, muttering a spell to dry the ink so that she could roll it up without risking smudges.

"That's fair. I need to do some more reading before I can finish that anyway." She ignored the surprise evident on her friends' faces when she actually gave in and put her work aside immediately. If they hadn't figured out yet that things had changed—that _she_ had changed—there was no point in trying to tell them yet again.

"Why did you say that it was good for you to be taking private lessons with Snape?"

"_Professor_ Snape, Ron. _Muffliato_." She slipped her parchment and quills into her bag. "It's very simple. We need some of his blood. How were you planning to get it? Snog me in the hallway again and this time give him a bloody nose if he tries to take points off? I don't think so."

"Well—" said Harry, glancing to Ron for help. "I, er, hadn't, really—"

"That's what I thought," she answered shrewdly. "Don't you see? I'm taking a class with him. I'm alone with him for hours every week, working with knives and volatile potion ingredients and all sorts of dangerous things. Nobody's going to be surprised if there's an accident, and no other students will be around to notice if I steal some blood while he's distracted."

"I don't like it," said Ron immediately. "That's not safe for you. What if he notices?"

"What's he going to do, kill me? If he's really Harry's father, he's going to find out about the potion eventually anyway."

"Yeah, but if he's not—"

"You should have thought about this before we spent months getting it ready, then, instead of wasting my time!" she snapped.

"No," said Harry quietly. "But Ron's right. You're too good at Potions for an accident to be believable. Neville knows what we're doing, and he's got private Defense lessons with Snape. Let's have him do it. You know that eventually he's going to get Snape with something and bloody him."

Hermione wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, reaching up to tug at an errant curl. "True," she said slowly. "But do you think he can collect the blood without Professor Snape noticing?"

"When's the last time you saw Neville drop something?"

As she thought back, she realized that she _hadn't_, not since sixth year. Her preoccupation with her own grief and stress had somehow kept her from noticing before Harry pointed it out, but Neville was different. He was still quiet and still gave off the (false) impression of being a few knuts short of a sickle, but he was possessed of a level of self-confidence that was new to him. She felt a twinge of guilt as she realized that she'd done the same thing to Neville that Ron and Harry were doing to her. _Yet another thing I've failed at_, she thought bitterly.

"You're right," she admitted. "Okay. We'll have Neville do it, then. Happy, Ron?"

He laid a hand on her wrist, squeezing it softly. "As long as you're next to me."

It would have been sweet, if not for the sudden panic that flooded her. It took all of her willpower not to snatch her hand away from him. She didn't want to be touched, didn't want to be the subject of Ron's saccharine endearments. But she forced herself to submit to it. Ron was not to blame for her revulsion, and she refused to punish him for it. She had made up her mind to endure it until things went back to normal.

_And they _will _go back to normal_. She insisted on believing that.

Harry cleared his throat politely. "All right, then. So we've got Aunt Petunia's blood, Neville can get Snape's. The potion needs to rest for another two weeks before it's ready anyway, which gives us some time."

Hermione put the last of her books in her bag. "You know what we haven't done yet since getting back?"

"What?"

"Visited Hagrid. Let's go."

A visit to Hagrid felt normal and good. She craved normalcy above all things. As they headed for the door and out towards Hagrid's cottage, she could almost pretend she was happy.

0 0 0

"Minerva."

The Headmistress, bent over yet another piece of paperwork, raised her head. "Yes, Albus?"

"You never asked what Severus needed to discuss with me."

She set down her quill and straightened up, pursing her lips together. "I assumed that it was private business. If I needed to know, would have told me."

The Headmaster's portrait pulled a lemon drop from his pocket and placed it on his tongue, sucking on it with a meditative air. "If _he_ felt you needed to know, I'm sure that he would. However, what we believe and what is actually true are not always the same thing."

"If you're trying to get me to ask you what you discussed, I will not do it. If it concerned the school in any serious way, I believe he would have come to me already. If it does not, I refuse to be responsible for invading his privacy."

Albus shifted so as to look at her more directly. "It concerns a student."

Her mouth closed more firmly than ever, her lips compressed into a tight line. Although her face remained mostly impassive, the Headmaster had long since become adept at reading her; he could see the flicker of irritation in her eyes.

"It also concerns Severus himself," he continued. "I am concerned about him. I hope you know enough of me to know that I would not discuss it with you without being convinced that I have legitimate reasons to do so."

The pulse in her neck quickened and her eyes widened with sudden apprehension. "If you're telling me he's having an affair with a student—"

"Good gracious, no! It is both more and less serious than that."

She smiled thinly. "You always did enjoy riddles."

The Headmaster chuckled merrily, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. It really was an incredibly well done portrait. "My dear Minerva, if I really wanted to stump you, I would be far more subtle. I am not using riddles. I am dropping hints. Now, all that remains is for you to take the bait and ask me to elaborate."

With a longsuffering sigh, she returned her quill to the inkwell, giving up on getting the paperwork done for now. "Very well, Albus. Tell me what it is that Severus was so anxious to discuss privately with you—on the condition that you swear you will never tell him that I asked."

"Should it become known that you are aware of the content of the discussion, I will tell him that I volunteered the information and that you asked me not to tell you."

"How generous of you to agree to tell the truth." She smiled in spite of herself. Although they had never made any open declarations of love, there had been what she considered to be an understanding between Albus Dumbledore and herself. They engaged in playful banter, he gave her lovely Christmas presents ever year, and she admired him more or less from afar. She'd missed him terribly in the year since he'd died, and occupying his office, in the company of his portrait, was surprisingly pleasant.

"Minerva, Severus has informed me that Miss Granger saved his life."

"If that's all you wanted to tell me, it's old news. Even you should know that; I thought I'd already told you myself. He owes a life-debt to a student. I can see why he might wish to discuss that with you, because I'm sure it bothers him terribly. What I don't understand is why you felt you needed to betray his confidence merely to repeat something I already knew."

"If I was only referring to events which are common knowledge, I wouldn't."

One of her eyebrows arched, and she folded her hands carefully, interlacing her fingers. "I see."

"Minerva, are you familiar with the term _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_?"

She inhaled sharply, her eyes locking on the portrait. "I—have heard a few things."

"It would seem," said Albus carefully, "that during his recuperation, Hermione played a significant role in his recovery. A role so significant, in fact, that Severus fears that they are subject to the _Coniugium_ enchantment. I believe he is correct in this."

"No! Albus, surely there's a mistake. They barely know each other. She's a Gryffindor, for heaven's sake!"

"Ah, yes," he answered gravely. "She is, indeed, a Gryffindor; a very intelligent, very perceptive Gryffindor. In fact, I have always found her to be quite similar to another Gryffindor that Severus once knew."

A long silence followed that statement. For a few moments, Minerva did not appear to even breathe. "No," she repeated, very slowly. "Even if she _is_ similar to Lily, It doesn't make sense, Albus. Everything I've ever heard makes it quite clear that it only happens between those who are already close. It requires a deep level of understanding--"

"Typically," he agreed, nodding. "However, I suspect that the reason for this supposed fact has been misinterpreted. In general, the binding occurs only between close friends or lovers, or even family. Normally, it is only when these close relationships already exist that the emotional need to reach out is such that the soul is able to transgress its boundaries. It is very atypical for anybody to feel such anguish over the death of another that their soul literally begins to be torn from their body. That said, atypical does not mean 'impossible.' She is a very passionate young lady, who has suffered a great deal."

"But for her to feel that way over Severus—" 

"Is both surprising and touching. It points to depths of feeling and sympathy on her part well beyond what even I believed her capable of."

Minerva removed her spectacles and slowly massaged the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. "I find it incredibly difficult to believe that, even if she was capable of this, that they were able to reconcile their souls enough for it to have worked."

Albus nodded seriously, lowering his eyes as though to study the shape of his long beard. "I confess, I agree that the convergence seems unlikely. However, my surprise was due to the fact that I am not as intimately acquainted with Hermione Granger as I could have been. Your surprise, I suspect, comes from the fact that you do not know Severus as well as you think you do. I do not say so pejoratively. He is an incredibly difficult man to know, and he does his best to ensure that he stays that way."

She made a face. "If this news is true, I can't imagine he's very pleased."

"He is not. He insisted that he should remove himself from her presence immediately and permanently."

"Perhaps he should. I'm sure if I explained to Horace, he'd make an exception—"

"No." His voice was firm, and final. Even though he was a mere portrait, he still spoke authoritatively. She frowned.

"Albus, I do not believe it is appropriate to allow one of my students to spend hours of private time with a professor who runs the risk of falling in love with her."

He chuckled again. From the look on her face, she did not feel it was an appropriate response to her concerns.

"My dear, how you romanticize these things. Yes, that possibility is a real one, but it is not inevitable, and Severus abhors the very idea far more than even you could do. However, I believe that enforcing his idea of a full separation is unwise and unfair to both of them. Clearly, there is something going on between them that none of us predicted or even truly understand. I have not spoken with Hermione, but I believe Severus stands to benefit greatly from her companionship, if he is capable of allowing himself to do so."

She sighed heavily. "I suppose I ought to tell her. It isn't fair for Severus to know and for Hermione to be in the dark. He isn't above manipulating her, you know."

"Indeed, he is not. I am in full agreement with you, Minerva. She ought to know."

"You really think—_Coniugium_?"

"I am convinced of it."

She squared her shoulders, frowning sternly. "Well, I may have to accept it, but I don't have to like it.

0 0 0

The visit to Hagrid's was even more pleasant than Hermione had hoped it would be. He was delighted to see them, and bustled about his cabin happily, setting out mugs full of tea and a tray of homemade goodies. The tea remained practically undrinkable, and neither the rock cakes nor the treacle fudge had changed.

When they were all provided with tea and were engaged in pretending to consume it, Hagrid sat down, gazing at Harry with tears in his eyes. They'd barely seen each other since the battle, and he beamed with love and pride.

"Knew yeh could do it, Harry," he said gruffly. "Yer mum and dad would be so proud."

Harry flushed and mumbled something incomprehensible. Hermione wondered if he was thinking of the possibility that James Potter might not be his father, but Hagrid simply took it as an example of Harry's boundless humility, and a few tears actually escaped his eyes, dripping into his beard.

"An' to give credit where it's due, of course—Ron an' Hermione." If his chest puffed out anymore, Hermione was sure that Hagrid would explode. "I always knew yeh'd do well. 'Course yeh would. Yeh've grown up to be a right brilliant witch and wizard, an' I don' mind telling you."

Ron looked pleased. "Thanks, Hagrid! But you should have seen what _you_ looked like out there. You and Grawp—it was great."

"Ar, that's nice of yeh to say, Ron," answered Hagrid, sitting up a little straighter. "Oh, an' I almost forgot! McGonagall wants teh see all three of you."

"What for?"

Hagrid grinned. "Yeh'll find out when she tells you. She's got a little bit of a surprise for yeh."

They stayed for another hour, chatting about school, discussing the battle, and asking Hagrid questions about what he'd done during his exile from Hogwarts. As it began to get dark, though, he shooed them out.

"Still not safe for yeh to be wanderin' the grounds at nigh', Harry. I don' care _what_ everyone else says. There's still Death Eaters loose somewhere. Minerva'd never forgive me if you got attacked 'cause I let you stay here after dark."

"I think I can take care of myself if any Death Eaters show up," said Harry, sounding almost amused.

"Tha's not the point," insisted Hagrid stubbornly. "I'm not scared of Death Eaters. I _am_ scared of Minerva McGonagall, though." He shook his head admiringly. "She's quite a woman, when she's angry."

They said goodbye to Hagrid, who insisted on stuffing their pockets with fudge. They skirted the lake as they walked away, stopping to toss hard chunks of fudge out to the Giant Squid, who caught them and then fell back into the water with a splash.

"Hope that stuff doesn't kill it," said Ron, brushing sticky crumbs off his robes.

"I'm sure it's eaten worse things," Hermione answered, amused. They walked back up to the castle in companionable silence. Ron walked close to her, and his hand stole over to hers, closing around it gently. She didn't shake him off. The night was warm and the air was soft and sweet smelling, carrying the scent of herbs from the greenhouses, and of water from the lake. It smelled good, in the same way that Ron did-- good, and normal, and familiar, like being home.

She immediately squelched that thought. Home didn't exist, outside of Hogwarts. Home was boarded up and left vacant. Her parents were in Australia. They weren't even her parents anymore, until she went back to retrieve them. Things had finally slowed down enough for her to realize how terribly she missed them.

For a while, it had been easy. She spent most of the year at Hogwarts, far away from her parents. But there were no letters, no packages, and no hugs at Christmas. The more time went by, the more she realized that they were not simply at home, waiting for her to come back and tell them of her latest adventures. And it was all her fault.

Ron squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, once more refusing to dwell on her loneliness and guilt. She was doing so well at pretending that everything was back to normal. Walking back to the castle, her mouth still full of the acrid taste of Hagrid's tea, she didn't mind Ron holding her hand. It was no longer a horrible invasion of her aloneness, but a sweet reminder of the way things used to be.

0 0 0

Back at the castle, they headed up to McGonagall's office. Not knowing the password, they had to knock loudly for several minutes before the door opened to give them access.

She was sitting at her desk, writing something. She looked a little surprised to see them, but she smiled and conjured three seats for them. Hermione looked around the office. It looked very similar to what it had been in Dumbledore's time. Several of his spindly, silver instruments still clicked and whirred on desks and tables. Books and scrolls were everywhere, arranged neatly, and a tin of biscuits sat on the desk, which the Headmistress picked up and offered to them. They each took one.

"Hagrid said that you wanted to see us," volunteered Harry. The surprise smoothed itself off her face and she smiled again with more warmth than Hermione had ever seen from her before.

"I wondered if he'd see you before I got a chance to. I've been terribly busy," she said conversationally. Ron, nibbling his biscuit, tried not to look surprised that the Headmistress was talking to them so casually.

"I know you didn't attend the last Order meeting—I hope someone has told you that you are all very welcome to come. You are of age at this point and we all consider you to be full-fledged Order members, although you have not yet officially pledged your loyalty. I asked Molly to let you know. But perhaps it slipped her mind," she added with a knowing smirk. Harry grinned. Hermione did too, in spite of herself. There was no doubt in her mind that Mrs. Weasley had decided to conveniently 'forget' to mention it to any of them. She clearly felt that they'd been involved in quite enough danger for one lifetime.

"Is that the surprise?" he asked.

"Surprise?"

"Hagrid said you had a surprise for us."

She frowned, although her eyes twinkled. "I should have known he'd mention something about that. No, Potter, that isn't the surprise. I wonder, how were you planning to spend your weekend?"

"Er—"

"Studying," supplied Hermione promptly. The Headmistress appeared satisfied with this answer, for she continued:

"How long would it take you to pack your homework and a change of clothes?"

"What for?" asked Harry.

"It was felt," said the Headmistress, "that it would be unfair of us to require Harry to remain at Hogwarts on the weekends when he has duties elsewhere. Since you three are all of age, we cannot allow Harry to go without extending the same permission to you. Your sister, Mr. Weasley, will also be allowed, if she chooses to go."

Harry looked confused. "Go where? What duties?"

She raised her eyebrow. "To The Burrow, Harry. Your godson, I am told, has been tiring Molly Weasley out and she hoped for a reprieve. I hardly need add that it is likely that he would benefit from the attention of his surrogate aunt and uncle as well. She has formally requested that the three of you be allowed to spend weekends there, and I felt that it would be acceptable, as long as you agree not to leave the property without a suitable Order escort. When can you be ready to go?"

They exchanged glances. "Fifteen minutes?"

"Very well." She nodded curtly. "You are dismissed. Return here in fifteen minutes. You will be traveling by Floo."

0 0 0

When they got back to her office, Ginny was waiting for them, and they stepped one by one into the fireplace to be whisked through the Floo network to Ottery St. Catchpole. Mrs. Weasley was waiting at the other end, and enveloped each of them in a tight, floury hug as they stepped from the fireplace. The warm smell of freshly baked bread permeated the room, and everything was cozy and homelike, as it always was.

"Hullo, mum," said Ron gruffly into his mother's shoulder. She ruffled his hair affectionately, then stepped back to look at him.

"I'm so pleased to see you, Ron. All of you have a seat, and I'll give you something to eat."

They sat, but Hermione's stomach was twisting into horrible knots, and she didn't think she could eat anything. She hadn't been back to The Burrow since Bill and Fleur's wedding, and it reminded her painfully of Fred. She hadn't been close with Fred and George, not like she was with Ron, but over the years she'd come to think of him as an older brother, and in spite of her disapproval of his more anarchistic behavior, she'd loved him dearly.

She wondered how Ron felt about being there. But then, Ron had spent all summer there, getting used to it. He looked comfortable enough. Harry, on the other hand, was rather green.

"We've already had dinner, Mrs. Weasley, and then tea at Hagrid's. I don't think I could eat another bite," said Harry uncomfortably.

"Oh," she said, looking disappointed. "Well, that's alright. We'll have a big breakfast tomorrow, anyway. Teddy's in the living room with George and Percy, why don't you go say hello?"

They got up. Ron looked relieved to be escaping his mother, but Harry was silent, and Hermione did not want to go into living room at all. In the comfortable familiarity of Hogwarts, going to The Burrow had seemed like a wonderful idea. But the idea of seeing George and little Teddy made her feel ill. They were reminders of death. Still, she followed Harry and Ron into the living room.

_Everybody else is suffering_, she reminded herself. _Bite your tongue. You're hardly the worst-off here._

Teddy was lying on the floor, giggling at a threadbare stuffed Griffin. Percy had his wand out and was pointing it at the toy, making it roar and flap its wings, and Teddy watched it with gleeful, babyish giggles.

She looked around the room for George. At first she thought he'd left, but then she saw him, sitting in an armchair in the corner. She caught her breath; he looked horrible. He'd grown thin, and his eyes were dark and sunken. There was a book in his lap, but he wasn't reading it. Instead, he was watching Teddy and Percy with an unreadable expression.

"Oi!" shouted Ron. "What d'you think you're doing with Bartleby?"

Percy and Teddy, who had been too engrossed in the game to notice their entrance, both started. Harry gave Ron a quizzical look. "Bartleby?"

Ron shrugged defensively. "I was four when I named him."

"Where'd you get a name like that from?"

"A children's book," said George. "The Adventures of Bartleby Bunny. Never had a clue why you'd name a griffin after a rabbit, though."

"_I_ think it's sweet," said Hermione staunchly. Ron looked embarrassed.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered. "It's not like I still care about an old thing like that."

Percy raised one eyebrow. "That's why you were upset about us letting Teddy play with it, right?"

Ron glared. "Shut up."

"Lovely to see you too, Ron," said George sardonically. Hermione frowned; it was the first time she'd ever heard George say something like that without real mirth behind it. Not that she could blame him. She couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like to lose a twin, especially one as close as Fred had been to George.

They sat on the floor, playing with Teddy, whose hair had turned bright lime green. Hermione couldn't look at it for long before her eyes began to water. He was a cheerful baby, cooing and smiling constantly around the fist he kept stuffed in his mouth. Harry, who had avoided him all summer, quickly grew comfortable with holding his baby godson, and quickly became engrossed in entertaining him.

Finally, though, Teddy fell asleep, sprawled on the floor with his fist still in his mouth and covered with drool. Harry was lying beside him, his eyes half-closed and fixed protectively on Teddy's prone form. Hermione and Ron had seated themselves on the couch, and Hermione was curled up against him, her head on his shoulder.

It wasn't perfect, by any means, but she could make herself be comfortable with him, if she didn't think about it too hard. His arm was draped around her shoulder, warming her back, and she was comfortable and sleepy. Ron whispered in her ear occasionally, saying small, meaningless, sweet things. She knew he wanted to marry her, and she told herself that it could be like this, happy and quiet and reassuringly domestic. She could settle for that. She knew she could.

She yawned, burrowing closer to Ron, who softly stroked her arm with his fingertip as she snuggled into him. This was right, she told herself. She refused to be a fool.

After all, there was no running from fate. And Ron was fate. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly.

0 0 0

She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. It had all happened before, but there was Ron once again, hoisting her desperately onto the broom behind him, and there she was again, flinging her arms around his waist and burying her face in his robes as they lifted into the air. She felt as though they'd left her stomach behind—she hated flying, she _hated_ flying.

Perhaps it was her terror that did it; she didn't know. She only knew that her mind seemed to disconnect itself from everything going on around them. Huge, fiery monsters were roaring behind them, and the air was shimmering with heat, but she felt horribly cold. The only heat she was aware of was the gentle warmth of Ron's back pressed into her chest. She could feel him breathing. She could smell him. The taste of their passionate kiss still lingered on her lips, and she found herself thinking about that, instead of the fact that they were soaring around the Room of Requirement as it filled with horrible, all-engulfing flames.

"IF WE DIE FOR THEM, I'LL KILL YOU, HARRY!" roared Ron, and she wanted to giggle at the idea that Ron could kill Harry after they were all dead. Oh God. They were all going to die. She clutched at Ron's chest convulsively, but she could squeeze no closer to him than she already had. She struggled to pay attention, and suddenly understood that Ron was talking about Goyle and Malfoy. Even though she knew it was impossible, she could hear Crabbe screaming from beneath the flames—terrible, tortured screams. He was damned. They were flying over hell.

Everything was twisted, as things so often are in dreams. All the angles were too sharp and the colors too bright. There were strange shadows around the edges of her vision. She helped Ron drag Goyle onto the broom and then shrieked in fear as they lurched under his added weight. She knew she had screamed, but the sound was lost, even to her own ears, under the roar of the flames.

"RON!" she tried to shout, but he couldn't hear her. Nobody could hear her. She couldn't even hear herself. Her voice had failed. "RON!"

They flew out the window and Crabbe disappeared as they fell from the broom in a tangle on the floor. She reached out to steady herself and gripped something cold and horribly slimy. Looking up, she saw Fred's body, horribly decayed. It was swollen, and slick with something viscous and evil smelling. As hard as she tried to let go, she couldn't. Her hand was stuck to his arm, and as she watched, the horrible decay was beginning to spread from his body and onto hers, moving slowly but inexorably upwards until it disappeared beneath the sleeve of her robe.

"No!" shouted a voice, and Ron was there again, tearing her robes from her body. Soon she was naked, still stuck to Fred, and Ron was staring in horror as the green and purple stains of death spread up to her shoulders and across her back and chest. She was sobbing now, begging incoherently for him to help her, but he was backing away slowly, disgust and terror in his eyes.

"What's going on? Hermione, you killed him!" he whispered. "YOU KILLED MY BROTHER!"

"No," she whimpered, begging with her eyes for him to believe her. "I didn't do it, Ron, I found him this way. There was nothing I could do. _There was nothing I could do!_"

"Do you think I'm a fool? Look at you! Don't lie to me, Hermione," he spat, "you could have saved him. You're the most brilliant witch Hogwarts has seen in a hundred years. You should have _done_ something."

She could feel her limbs growing cold and numb, and a horrible stench was rising to her nostrils. Her entire body had changed, grown putrid and soft. When she moved, something sloshed about under her skin, and whatever it was began to ooze out of her pores. The stench increased.

She didn't pay attention to that, though. She was looking at Ron. His eyes had turned red, and he was pointing his wand at her. Suddenly, his hair began to lighten, until it was nearly white, and his sweet, familiar face became narrow and pointed, and filled with hatred. They were back in the Room of Requirement. She was whole and clean. Fred was gone, and her stunner had just missed Crabbe and hit Harry instead; he lay on the floor, senseless.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something moving, and Ron ran into view just as Malfoy pointed his wand and opened his mouth to shout the killing curse.

But Malfoy never had time to speak. "_Avada Kedavra_," hissed Ron's voice, high and shrill, and she woke up with a horrible scream.

"Hermione!" She was in her bed. When had she gone to bed? The last thing she remembered was Ron's hand moving into her hair as they cuddled on the couch. Ron was still there, but she was definitely in bed. That didn't make any sense at all.

"Hermione," he said again, softer this time as he saw that her eyes were open. "You were screaming." He sounded frightened, and she shuddered. The dream clung to her memory evilly. She couldn't see his eyes in the dark, and she imagined them turning red, imagined him pulling his wand out to curse her—

"NO!" she shrieked, jerking away from him. "Don't touch me!"

"'Mione…it was a dream. It was just a dream. Everything is fine. You're safe." He hesitated, and then reached for her, pulling her into his arms. She twitched uncomfortably, but didn't pull away again. _Fate,_ she reminded herself. "It was just a dream," he repeated, his face buried in her hair.

"I—" she stopped. There was no point in saying anything. There was nothing to say. It was only a nightmare. Horrible and vivid and frighteningly real, but a dream nonetheless. Only another in a long string of horrible dreams.

"I love you," he said comfortingly, rubbing her back. "I'll keep you safe."

"How—how did I get into bed?"

"You fell asleep; I carried you up."

Hesitantly, she slipped her arms around him. He was dressed in flannel, and she supposed it was his pajamas; it was too dark to see them.

"Have you been… here? All night?"

He laughed wryly. "No. You woke Ginny up talking in your sleep and when she couldn't wake you, she came and got me."

"Oh."

"She said you were saying my name." He was rubbing her back again in slow, concentric circles, willing her to relax. His touch spread warmth into her back. She thought about what it would be like to spend the rest of her life like this, waking up beside Ron in the middle of the night. Her imagination failed her, though.

"You killed me."

His hand stopped moving. "I did what?"

"In my dream. We were in the Room of Requirement, and you drew your wand and killed me." His chest muffled the words as she spoke. Through the thin flannel of his pajamas, she felt his muscles tensing.

"It was just a dream, Hermione."

She sighed, pulling away and lying down with her back to him. "I know."

"I would never do anything to hurt you."

Inexplicably, a lump rose in her throat, and she felt tears begin to sting her eyes. "I know," she said again, her voice unsteady. She could feel the mattress shift as he stood up, and she heard his footsteps as he moved toward the door.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked hopefully. "Gin won't mind."

She sniffled. Her nose had begun to run, and she wiped it with the back of her hand, blinking against her tears. "No."

"I love you." There was a pleading note behind the words, but she couldn't give him the answer he wanted. Not yet.

"I know," she whispered. He stood there, unmoving, for a long time before Hermione heard him walk away.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Right before I uploaded this, someone posted a review thanking me for not going crazy in the angst department. Heh. Hopefully this chapter doesn't negate that. But, a lot of people are dead, she's stuck in a relationship she doesn't really want to be in, and she's struggling pretty intensely with her feelings. Angst is in order. 

No Snape in this chapter, but he'll be back in chapter 18, I promise. I can't go long without him...I don't like being too Hermione-centric.

Reviewers.. I hang on your every word. Thank you so much for everything you have to say. I am amazed by the sheer number of reviews you've all been so kind as to leave for me thus far. When I started writing this, I really didn't expect that anybody would read it. You humble me.


	18. Hints

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 18: Hints**

* * *

"Hello?" 

Severus Snape listened for an answering rustle, a voice, _any_ noise to answer him, but nothing came. The chilly dungeon room was lit only by the last dying embers in his fireplace and was so dark that he could see only silhouettes of furniture and strange, misshapen shadows.

"Reveal yourself!" he sat up, his fingers already wrapped around the ebony handle of his wand. Again, there was no response. Nothing happened at all. He held his breath, straining his ears, but he could not even hear the sound of a breath.

Silently, he flicked his wand in the air. Light burst from it, stinging his eyes as it flooded the room. If his bedchamber was playing host to an intruder, the sudden change in the quality of the light would affect someone else's eyes as well as his. As soon as his vision adjusted to the sudden brightness, he looked around. Nothing. He cast _Homenum Revelio_. Again, nothing.

And yet _something_ had awakened him. He had long since trained himself to need very little sleep, but the few hours a night that he did take for himself were generally unbroken. Years of practicing Occlumency every night had ensured that he almost never dreamed. Sleep was a peaceful oblivion that he enjoyed all the more fervently for the limited place it held in his life. He did not appreciate being roused from it without good reason.

He glanced at the ancient Muggle alarm clock sitting beside his bed. It read half-past three in the morning. A precious thirty minutes of sleep had been snatched from him. He knew himself far too well to think he would be able to reclaim it. Irritated, he disabled the alarm and ran his fingers through his hair. He did not wake up without a reason, and he was sure there had been something. It tickled the edge of his consciousness. Something had wrenched him out of deep sleep and into alertness in the space of hardly a second.

Carefully, he examined his memories, but there was nothing. First he was lying in his bed, hands folded across his chest as insensibility stole over him, and then he was bolt upright in his bed, covered with sweat, his heart pounding with dread.

A surge of irritation out of proportion to the situation flooded through him and he grunted angrily, getting out of bed and stalking towards his bathroom. No point in lying abed when he was awake. He turned on the shower and stepped into it. The best thing about Hogwarts, he decided as he leaned against the dark tiled wall, had to be the showers. The water pounded into his body with such force that it could almost be called violent. By the time he was finished, his skin was red from the heat. It was probably just a House-Elf disapparating back to the kitchens, he decided.

0 0 0

Hermione stumbled down to breakfast earlier than Ron, Harry or Ginny. Mrs. Weasley was already up and about and she bustled through the kitchen with an air of determined cheerfulness, manipulating four different frying pans with her wand and directing a running stream of commentary over her shoulder at her husband. Arthur Weasley was seated at the table with a hot cup of tea and the morning edition of _The Daily Prophet_, occasionally responding to his wife with a grunt or a nod. Teddy burbled from a high chair, gnawing on a slice of apple. Were it not for the undertone of sadness and tension still in the air, it would have been a perfect domestic scene.

"Good morning, Mr. Weasley," said Hermione as she sank into one of the kitchen chairs. The Weasley kitchen in the morning was somehow easier to cope with than it had been the previous night. It was full of delicious, breakfast-y smells, and Mrs. Weasley immediately produced a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast, no doubt prepared from the bread she'd baked the previous night.

"Ah, Hermione!" beamed Mr. Weasley over his paper. "How wonderful to see you. Sorry I wasn't in to greet you last night. Kingsley—er, Minister Shacklebolt has been keeping me late at the Ministry. Quite a bit of work to be done, you know!"

"How are things going?" she asked politely, taking a bite of her toast.

"Oh, as well as can be expected. People seem to think that all the Death Eaters were at Hogwarts the day that—well, the day of the battle. I only wish that were true. According to Severus, a number of them were ordered to remain in hiding. We got most of the prominent ones, but it's not really safe out there just yet." He shook his head regretfully. "Going to take some time to round them all up again."

His voice was still cheerful, but he looked strained, and Mrs. Weasley had begun to clash her pans about on the stove with a little more force than was technically necessary. Hermione lapsed into silence, reading the back of the _Prophet_. It contained an article on Professor Snape, discussing the revelation of his true identity. She supposed that was going to remain sensational news for quite a while.

In the end, the whole thing had been far less complicated than it could have been. Harry's declaration to Voldemort of Snape's true alliance had done a great deal to pave the way for his pardon. Kingsley Shacklebolt had come to see Harry at Grimmauld Place one day and they'd secluded themselves into a small room for several hours. When he came out, he claimed to be perfectly satisfied that Severus Snape was on their side. Between Harry and Shacklebolt, public opinion was swayed.

It didn't mean that anyone _liked_ him, really, but they understood a little more about him.

"Tea, George?" asked Mrs. Weasley as her son shuffled in to the room. His hair was disheveled and the rings around his eyes looked even darker, as though he hadn't slept. He muttered in the affirmative and threw himself into a chair, not looking at Hermione. The memory of her dream came back to her when she saw his face and brought with it a wave of intense nausea. She gagged, pushing her toast away and standing up.

"Sorry, I—I'm just going to go see if Ginny's awake yet," she mumbled, all but running from the room.

Ginny, as it happened, _was_ awake, and she watched with concern as Hermione stumbled from the bathroom to her bed, wiping her mouth.

"Hermione," she said cautiously, "I don't mean to pry, but what's going on?"

She bit her lip, smelling the mint from her toothpaste and a hint of bile that she hadn't quite succeeded in scrubbing away. "Bad dreams."

Ginny's eyebrows went up skeptically. "You ran up here from the kitchen and lost your breakfast in the loo because of a bad dream? What did you do, fall asleep at the table?"

"Oi!" yelled Harry, banging on the door. "Hermione, Ginny, wake up! I'm starving!"

Ginny grabbed her pillow and lobbed it at the door just as Harry threw it open. It hit him square in the face and he ducked back out of the doorway.

"Fine, fine, you're awake. You don't need to attack me over it." He waited to see if any more projectiles would be aimed his way and then, apparently deciding it was safe, stuck his head back in the room. "Your mum apparently doesn't want to give us anything but tea and toast until everyone's at the table." His stomach growled. "I haven't eaten since tea at Hagrid's yesterday; I'm famished."

Hermione was already dressed and Ginny didn't bother, going downstairs in her pajamas. They were soft and gold-colored, the same color as the dress she wore at Bill and Fleur's wedding. When Hermione complimented them, Ginny explained that they'd been a gift from her sister-in-law on that occasion.

Breakfast was a loud, typically Weasley affair. Ginny and Ron kept up a steady stream of talk, and Mrs. Weasley refused to sit down. Instead, she hovered over the table, keeping plates and glasses filled and encouraging all of them to eat. Only Hermione seemed to notice that George kept his mouth firmly shut, or that all of their laughter and commotion seemed rather forced. Her appetite hadn't come back, and she picked listlessly at the huge pile of food on her plate. Ginny, in the midst of a comical story about Professor Flitwick, paused for a second to look sharply at the plate before continuing.

After breakfast, they returned upstairs so Ginny could get dressed. She shut the door and locked it, taking Hermione by the shoulders, moving her to sit on the edge of her bed, and giving her friend a hard look.

"Hermione, are you pregnant?"

She felt her thoughts grind to a sudden, surprised halt. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Are you pregnant?"

"How could you even _ask_ me that?"

Ginny simply turned away from her and began unbuttoning her pajamas so that she could get dressed. "That's not an answer. Now are you, or not?" Her persistence was maddening.

"No!"

"Oh thank God." The redhead's shoulders slumped with relief before she shrugged off her top and reached for a jumper, pulling that over her head instead. "I'm sorry, I had to ask. I thought that might be the reason things have been so tense between you and Ron this last week."

"Oh…no. We haven't even—" Hermione blushed.

"Ah." Tugging at the zip on her jeans, Ginny turned back around, giving her a penetrating look. "Why not?"

"What do you mean, 'why not'?"

"Let me put it to you this way, Hermione. You and Ron are probably the only two people who _don't_ think he spent every weekend this summer with his hand down your knickers."

Her blush deepened. "Harry doesn't."

Ginny shrugged, picking up a hairbrush and tugging it through her straight, heavy hair. Hermione watched enviously. Ginny's hair was thick and smooth, and once she'd brushed it, it simply stayed where it was. No frizz, no tangles, no horrible curls. "Maybe not," she conceded, setting the hairbrush down. "We've had other things to discuss." The ghost of a smirk played around her lips. Not really understanding why, Hermione felt a little insulted and a lot left behind.

"Ron—I mean, It just hasn't come up."

"Come over here and sit down."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

She made a show of sighing and rolling her eyes, but she did it. Ginny freed the tangle of curls from the tight knot that Hermione had forced it into. Any illusion of smoothness disappeared as her hair sprang free, curling wildly. She frowned at herself in the mirror. It looked frizzy and dry, as though it might crunch if she squeezed it in her hands. Picking up the hairbrush, Ginny began to work it through the ends of the curls, de-tangling them with painstaking care.

"You don't love him," she said matter-of-factly, her eyes focused on a particularly riotous knot.

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

She shrugged. "I'm a Gryffindor."

"I do love him. I'm sure I do. Things are just complicated right now. I need to cope with things. It will be fine."

Ginny sniffed. "Harry and I are coping with things too. _Together_," she added pointedly. "It certainly isn't keeping us from being happy with each other."

"It's my own problem, okay? It's got nothing to do with Ron." She wished that she didn't sound so defensive about it. The brush was almost at her scalp now and as the bristles touched her skin, she felt a tingle move across her head. The sensation relaxed her in spite of herself.

"It isn't that I don't love him, Ginny, and I'm doing my best."

The bristles of the hairbrush dragged themselves over her head four or five more times before Ginny answered: "He's not stupid, Hermione. He knows."

She stiffened visibly, and she saw her face whiten in the mirror. "What do you mean?"

Putting the brush down, Ginny began to separate the red-brown curls into segments and plait them, wrapping braids around Hermione's head until all of her hair was nestled in a sort of crown. Tiny curls and bits of frizz escaped it, but they formed into attractive ringlets, somehow creating an illusion that they were intentional. She'd never seen her hair that way and, as she looked at it, she realized that she'd like it, if she weren't so busy waiting for Ginny to answer her.

"I mean that whatever else is wrong with him, he's not an idiot. He knows you don't love him. He's not going to say anything about it, because I think he'd marry you even if you hated him, if he could only get you to say yes. But he knows."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, that. Well—"

"There's nothing wrong with not loving him, Hermione. He's a twat most of the time, really." Ginny leaned over and hugged her friend briefly. "But there's no point in trying to pretend that you do. Either tell him you don't love him but that you're willing to stay with him anyway, or end it.

"Don't be silly. I love him. I've always loved him." She was _supposed_ to love him.

"If you say so."

0 0 0

The rest of the weekend passed quickly and they returned to Hogwarts laden down with biscuits and clean socks, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley. A few Gryffindors asked where they'd been, but Ron and Hermione just shrugged the questions off, and Harry explained that he had family obligations. Nobody seemed to feel a need to pry.

Over the next few weeks, things settled into a comfortable routine. Professor Snape's lessons were difficult and demanding, but she enjoyed them. Every lesson after the first had been held in a dungeon classroom adjacent to the regular Potions lab. She fetched the ingredients she needed and worked painstakingly on the potions he assigned. Generally, he merely sat and graded papers until the end of the period, at which point he accepted a sample of whatever she was working on and set it at the edge of his desk

He almost never spoke. He was waiting for her in the classroom by the time she arrived, the ingredients and relevant page numbers already written on the board in his distinctive spiky handwriting. Sometimes she ventured to ask questions. Occasionally he answered them. Mostly, he merely raised one eyebrow and pointed the tip of his wand at the page numbers listed in the book, apparently expecting her to be able to teach herself.

At the end of each period, after she'd turned in her potion, he passed her a piece of parchment with a writing assignment. They were usually very difficult and required a great deal of research. They were always graded by the next class session, and covered thickly with comments and corrections. In spite of his silence, she was learning an immense deal about the theory of Potions.

Initially, his silence had repulsed her, but as the weeks went by she grew accustomed to it, and even enjoyed it. It was not exactly companionable, but it was tolerable and predictable. She enjoyed beginning her days with nothing but the quiet noise of her knife on a chopping board and his quill scratching across an exam; it was like a form of meditation, almost. Very rarely, he would mutter some malediction against the unfortunate student whose work he was grading, but the noise always surprised her. She found she preferred it when he didn't speak.

The only thing that puzzled her about it was that he was incredibly vocal during Defense classes, lecturing almost constantly. Often he diverged from pure Defense into auxiliary subjects like Healing, insisting that they all learn a series of basic diagnostic and healing spells. Once he was sure they had those down, he began to randomly throw curses at students during lessons. He still gave points to Gryffindor, usually for quick and effective shield charms, although occasionally for other things.

One day, though, he did speak, and she even didn't notice, at first.

She'd been busy remembering the night before, thinking about Ron. Things hadn't changed much between them. They fought quite a bit, and their fighting was interspersed with intense sessions in which he kissed her hungrily and warmed his cold hands under her shirt. She allowed it with a sense of resignation. It got easier over time. After all, he was so very dear to her.

_Ron had gone to bed early and she'd stayed behind until she was the last one in the Common Room, all sense of time having disappeared in the face of the Transfiguration essay she was writing. Finally she'd gotten up to go to bed and Ron had appeared from nowhere, pushing her into the wall and burying his face in her neck._

"_I couldn't sleep," he'd grunted, rubbing his nose into her hair and kissing the side of her neck wetly. His hands had begun to wander up her sides and he breathed heavily. "I love you so much," he'd added then, as he moved his lips to her mouth. She had kissed him back—she always kissed him back—until his hips had pressed into hers._

"_Ron, stop." _

"_Why?" God, did he have to sound so disappointed?_

"_We can't do this here."_

"_We're not doing anything wrong," he'd coaxed, letting his hand slide from her waist to her hip. "Besides, everyone else is asleep."_

"_That's what I thought before you showed up," she'd pointed out. He'd grumbled and pulled away, letting her go up to bed. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep…_

"Miss Granger, I am not accustomed to being ignored by my students." His voice broke angrily into her thoughts. He was standing in front of her, his brows knit together in an expression of deepest annoyance. She looked at him in surprise; her Banaghan Brew needed ten more minutes to rest before the next step, and there were another forty minutes left in the class period.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Snape," she gasped. "My mind was wandering."

His lip curled. "Obviously."

She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. "Could you repeat the question, sir?"

"I said," he whispered coldly, his eyes going narrow, "that it is time to move on to the next phase of your Potions education."

"Sir?"

"You have, thus far, proved that you can adequately follow directions. It is now time to determine whether you are capable of doing any more than that. You have…" he glanced at the clock "…seven minutes remaining before you proceed to the next step in your brewing. Before those seven minutes have elapsed, you will examine your list of ingredients, consider their properties, and devise a variation to the potion. You will then attempt to brew not the original recipe but its variation.

She stared at him. "Seven minutes?"

"Six, now," he corrected sleekly. "It is time to prove that you are more than a mere parrot, Miss Granger. _If_," he added, "you can."

He returned to his desk, resuming his grading as though nothing had happened. She fetched a piece of fresh parchment and feverishly began scanning the ingredients. The potion itself was a relatively simple one, designed to enhance the abilities of a storyteller and very popular amongst writers and members of Wizarding theater circles. All of the ingredients, though, already made perfect sense to her as they were. What could be done to modify them?

She furrowed her brow. Obviously there was _something _she could do. She knew enough of the so-called Half-Blood Prince to know that modifying existing potions was a special talent of his. She knew enough of Professor Snape to know that even he wasn't sadistic enough to order her to achieve something that was literally impossible, even though it might be incredibly difficult. He really did intend to teach her something.

Inspiration struck at the last possible moment and she tossed her parchment aside, opening her Potions kit and digging through it eagerly. When she found what she was looking for, the last seconds were ticking down and she began the next step of the potion, feeling triumphant.

It worked, too, just as she'd hoped it would. At the end of the period, she bottled a sample and placed it on his desk, waiting for him to respond. He reached out, repositioned the bottle until it sat in the exact spot he always placed her potion samples, and then wordlessly handed her a piece of parchment with her next assignment written on it.

0 0 0

At dinner that day, Neville nudged her with a particularly significant look.

"I've got something for you," he whispered. Harry and Ron immediately looked interested.

"Is it what I think it is?" Harry asked eagerly. Neville just grinned, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small bottle full of something dark. The bottle was tinted to disguise its true color, but Hermione knew that when they poured its contents out, they would be crimson.

"Put it away!" she hissed. Professor Snape had continued to stare at their table for at least a few minutes out of every meal. "Do you want him to see that?"

Neville looked abashed, and Harry hastily grabbed the vial and shoved it into his pocket. "Sorry," he muttered. "You're right."

"Honestly, you're the one who doesn't want to get caught, remember?"

Ron reached over to her plate and helped himself to a bite of her treacle tart. She gritted her teeth and pretended not to notice. In his family, she knew, there was nothing atypical about doing something so casual, but in hers it would have been shocking. Her parents were both quiet, studious people. They expected polite behavior at all times, not so much to be posh as to ensure that things stayed peaceful and tidy. There was no point in explaining that to Ron. She would simply have to get used to it.

"When can we finish the potion?" he asked, having swallowed the bite of tart. He was eyeing her plate hungrily and she grumpily scooped up a slice of the tart from the serving dish and deposited it in front of him.

"Shut up!" said Ginny angrily before Hermione could respond. "Do you want everyone to hear? Honestly, Ronald, how you were able to survive for a year on your own without being killed is beyond me."

"Maybe you'd know if you hadn't stayed behind," he growled.

Ginny's pale face went utterly white with rage, her freckles standing out oddly on her skin. She pulled out her wand and pointed it across the table at him, her green eyes flashing menacingly.

Ron pulled his own wand out just in time.

"_Proteg_—"

"_LEVICORPUS!_" she shrieked. Her voice echoed through the Great Hall, which fell abruptly silent. There was a clatter of dishes as Ron's body was yanked ten feet into the air.

"Ginny!" he shouted angrily, trying to get a bead on her with his wand. With a swift flick of her wrist, his body was spinning. "What the bloody hell are you doing? Let me down!"

"NEVER—say—that—to me—again!" she shouted, her eyes filling with furious tears. Ron's face was beginning to go green with nausea as he rotated in the air. Hermione stared, aghast, her own wand forgotten in her sleeve.

"Let him down!" said Harry, grabbing at Ginny's shoulders. "Gin, let him down. You've got to calm down."

"No!" she shouted. "Not until he apologizes!"

"GINEVRA WEASLEY!" roared a new voice, and all heads turned to the spot where Professor McGonagall was now standing, looking every bit as intimidating as Professor Dumbledore ever had. Slowly, Ron stopped spinning, although his body did not return to the floor. Professor McGonagall had, by that time, made it halfway to the Gryffindor table, her wand out.

"You will return your brother to the floor _this instant_," she demanded furiously. Ginny dropped her wand to her side and Ron tumbled to the ground with a groan, his ribs making a horrible crunching sound as they hit the flagstones.

"Detention, Miss Weasley. For a month at the very least--and you had better _pray_ that last little trick didn't do him any serious injury or you will be kept under my eye for the rest of the term."

"You told me to put him down," she muttered rebelliously.

Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared. "My office. _Now_, Miss Weasley. Potter, take her brother up to the hospital wing. If she's cracked his ribs with this stunt of hers, make sure that Poppy lets me know immediately."

The Headmistress' tone of voice brooked no refusal, and Ginny dutifully followed her from the room. Hermione and Harry bent over Ron, helping him as he dragged himself slowly to his feet. She could feel every eye in the Great Hall burning into them curiously, but she ignored them.

"Are you okay, Ron?" she whispered instead as she and Harry each hooked an arm around his waist, supporting him. He was clutching his ribs and gasping for air with great, wheezing heaves and he didn't exactly answer her, although he did nod in a halfhearted sort of way.

They made their way slowly up toward the hospital wing. After two flights of stairs, it became clear that he wasn't going to make it under his own steam, and she cast a full-body bind, levitating him into the air. Harry helped guide his body the rest of the way and she cast the counter-jinxes outside the door, helping him walk the last few feet through the huge double doors.

Nobody was there. Frustrated, Hermione focused instead of helping Ron get comfortable on a bed. He was moaning in pain, still clutching his ribs. She exchanged a worried look with Harry.

"_Detego_," she said quickly, passing her wand over Ron's chest. A translucent silvery-blue vapor appeared from the wand, wrapping around his body like a cocoon. It began to pulse in time with his heartbeat, rapid but steady. The vapor clinging around his chest began to change color, warming into a lurid streak of bright red that ran down the left side of his chest, where he'd landed on the floor.

"I know what red means," said Harry anxiously. "Red is _bad_."

"Thank you for that very succinct outline of Professor Snape's last lecture on diagnostic spells, Harry," she muttered sarcastically. "I _know_ red is bad. Where's Madame Pomfrey?"

"Here!" cried a breathless voice. Madame Pomfrey hurried into the room, her cheeks bright red with exertion. "The Headmistress just sent me, I was in the library. Good gracious, child!" she stopped short, staring at Ron. "What on earth did she do to him?"

"Levitated him twelve feet in the air and then dropped him on the floor of the Great Hall," said Harry grimly.

Hermione frowned. "It wasn't twelve feet, Harry. It was more like ten. But she did drop him…just broke the spell and let him fall."

Madame Pomfrey had her own wand out and was probing Hermione's misty veil thoughtfully. "I see you've been paying attention in your Defense class. Wise of Professor Snape to insist on teaching you healing spells. _Finite Incantatem_."

The mist disappeared abruptly just as Ron gave a shuddering gasp for air, making an odd whistling sound as he did. She set her jaw.

"Your sister, Mr. Weasley, appears to have punctured one of your lungs." Ron moaned in pain, his eyes tightly closed. "Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, stay here with him while I go fetch a few things. Don't let him move too much, if you please. We don't want to make things any worse than they already are. How he even made it up here—"

Harry was staring at Ron, apparently horrified that his girlfriend could have done something like this to her brother. "Er—Hermione petrified him and levitated him up. He was having too much trouble doing it himself."

Madame Pomfrey looked pleased. "Good to see you have some common sense, Miss Granger. Now, I'll be right back. Have a seat if you like. Don't let him move. And stop looking like that, Mr. Potter. He's going to be perfectly fine. This is nothing I can't fix. He could have gotten hurt far more badly playing Quidditch."

She hurried away to fetch the necessary potions. Hermione sat carefully on the side of the bed, reaching up to stroke Ron's forehead. He was covered with cold sweat and his breathing was labored and strange.

"Don't… talk… Quidditch," he muttered breathlessly, waving a hand vaguely in Harry's direction. "Can't miss… the game."

"Ron, someone else can play for you, it's fine."

He grimaced. Harry had been given back his status as captain of the team and Ron had done incredibly well at tryouts. His confidence had improved a great deal, which Hermione supposed was part and parcel of being a key played in the defeat of Lord Voldemort. She hadn't paid much attention to Quidditch—hadn't even gone to all the games, in spite of Ron playing Keeper. But Harry and Ron had embraced the game with all of the enthusiasm of former years, spending hours out on the Quidditch pitch, practicing.

Madame Pomfrey returned with an armful of potions.

"There now, Mr. Weasley, drink up. That should kill the pain a bit. Potter, hold his hand for me, will you? Stop being squeamish and _hold his hand_, Potter. I've got to re-set this rib and he's going to need something to bear down on. That potion helped, but it won't kill all the pain. Miss Granger, if you'll take his other hand? Very good, thank you."

As soon as they were each squeezing Ron's hands, she began moving her wand in complicated motions over his wrist, concentrating intently. Ron made a noise that could easily have been a scream, if he'd been able to breathe properly. Instead it was merely a loud, raspy groan. Hermione cringed, closing her eyes. His face was contorted with pain.

"Good boy," murmured Madame Pomfrey soothingly. "You may let go now. Drink this one, now, dear. All of it, I know it tastes horrible, but you don't expect it to be good for you if it tastes pleasant, do you? And now this last one—you need to get some sleep while you heal."

The last potion took effect almost immediately, and Ron's eyes slid out of focus. A silvery cat ran into the room and leapt onto Madame Pomfrey's shoulder, leaning its head toward her ear.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Potter—you're going to have to leave now." She held up a hand before they could protest. "The Headmistress wishes to see you in her office."

0 0 0

When they got to the office, Ginny appeared to have been suitably chastened. She sat in a chair, her arms wrapped around herself and her mouth closed tightly. Professor McGonagall was glaring at her, looking as though she'd just finished a very long lecture.

"How is he?" she asked, as Harry and Hermione entered.

"Broken ribs and a punctured lung," Hermione answered, with a rather bitter glance at Ginny, who had the good sense to look remorseful.

"Miss Weasley," said Professor McGonagall, sounding disappointed, "I hope you are suitably ashamed of yourself. Members of your family have done some shocking things during my tenure at this school but _never_ have I seen such a display."

Ginny didn't answer, but hugged herself closer. One of the windows was cracked open and just as Hermione noticed the pleasant evening breeze coming in from it, a silvery form leapt through the opening and onto Professor McGonagall's desk. Hermione recognized it as a weasel and it immediately opened its mouth, speaking with Mr. Weasley's voice:

"Received your Patronus. Arriving in two minutes. Ready Floo."

Professor McGonagall nodded curtly to the weasel, which disappeared. Pulling her wand, she pointed it at the fireplace, which roared to life. Hermione chanced another glance at Ginny, who now looked like she was going to be sick.

"I suggest," said Professor McGonagall dryly, "that you come up with _some_ sort of explanation to give before your parents arrive."

"Professor?" said Harry. "Why did you want us here? Isn't this a—well, a family matter?"

She sighed, and Hermione noticed for the first time how very tired and old she looked. The expression on the Headmistress' face reminded her of Albus Dumbledore. She seemed laden down with care.

"Potter, as far as anybody with any sense is concerned, you are a de facto member of the Weasley family. As for Miss Granger, the same may be said of her, to say nothing of the fact that her—relationship—with Mr. Weasley is such that she certainly has a right to be involved. Furthermore, as Ginevra refuses to discuss the matter with me, I require you as witnesses."

The flames in the fireplace roared and turned green as Arthur and Molly Weasley stepped through.

"Where is she?" snapped Mrs. Weasley immediately.

"Now Molly," murmured Arthur in a conciliatory voice, "let's wait and hear the entire story." He laid his hands on her shoulders and at first Hermione thought she wasn't going to listen but then, unexpectedly, she closed her mouth and sat down.

"Poppy is taking care of Ron," said Professor McGonagall immediately. "He has broken ribs and a punctured lung, as a result of being dropped from such a height. Harry and Hermione were there, and I've asked them here to explain exactly what happened."

"Ron provoked her," said Harry immediately. "He was twitting her about staying behind last year while we were on our mission."

"She started it," snapped Hermione. "Don't go acting like somehow this is all his fault."

Harry looked angry, but didn't deny it. "Anyway, they were fighting, and he said that, and she—well, she lost her temper--"

Hermione snorted. "That's an understatement."

"—And cast _Levicorpus_. When Professor McGonagall told her to put him down, she let him fall."

"Is this true?" asked Mr. Weasley, his voice sharper than Hermione had ever heard it before. Ginny looked taken aback by his anger and she nodded miserably.

"Very well," he said tightly. "Headmistress McGonagall, I would like to request your permission to bring my daughter home overnight and discuss this matter with her there."

"Permission granted, Arthur." Professor McGonagall looked almost relieved. "Contact me when you're ready to bring her back and I'll make sure the Floo is prepared."

The three Weasleys stood up stiffly. Mrs. Weasley was frighteningly silent, one hand inside her robes, visibly gripping her wand. Mr. Weasley put his hand on his daughter's arm to guide her to the Floo, and she looked over to Harry. He blushed and turned away, unsure of what to say.

When they were gone, Professor McGonagall sighed again. "Can either of you give me some explanation as to why this happened?"

Harry stared at the spot in the fireplace where Ginny had just spun out of sight. "They've been fighting ever since the battle."

"Since their brother was killed, you mean," she said softly.

"Yeah."

Hermione felt her throat tighten. Her eyes wandered up to Professor Dumbledore's portrait and she suddenly wished that he were there, handing out lemon drops. She wondered if he'd picked up the habit by handing them out as a preventative against weeping students. It made sense.

"You may go back to the Common Room, Potter. Miss Granger, I'd like you stay a moment, if you don't mind."

Harry laid one hand on his arm. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, wishing her throat wasn't so horribly constricted. "Go on, I'll meet you there."

0 0 0

He stared at the vial on his desk.

She had never been a terribly inspired Potions student. Her essays were always thorough, always longer than necessary and always over-researched. But her potions, although never done poorly, were strictly by-the-book. He'd expected her to test within seventh year standards in the subject, simply because she was an overachiever. He hadn't expected her to do so well that she might need private lessons.

Now, though, he'd spent weeks watching her. He never spoke, if he could help it. He might be forced to endure her company, but he refused to have more interactions with her than he could possibly help. He graded papers and observed her carefully from the corner of his eye.

Something had changed about her style. It had grown more fluid, more self-assured. In everything else she seemed to have become less confident, but the moment she took her place in front of the cauldron, she was different. At first he couldn't put his finger on what it was he noticed in those quiet hours in the dungeons. Finally, he realized that it was during Potions lessons that she most resembled her old self. She was not an enthusiastic hand-waver any longer, and she rarely volunteered answers. She still did exceptionally well, but her self-confidence was gone.

He did not like it that she retained that self-confidence only in a subject that he was quite sure was _not_ her favorite.

And so he had devised a test. The Miss Granger of his experience was methodical. She was thorough. She was accurate. But she was not inspired. She did not deviate from the given method, because she trusted her textbooks too implicitly to consider improvising. And so he would force her. A methodical student did not make an intuitive potion-maker. If she had developed a newfound intuition about Potions, it would tell him once and for all whether or not his fears were well founded.

And now, when it came to it, did he have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? He'd skipped dinner and gone directly to his office with the vial, only to sit there for over an hour, staring at it, wand in hand. It was such a nondescript little bottle, exactly like hundreds of others that students had given him in the past. The potion inside was swirling slowly of its own accord, changing from one color to another—exactly as it should do.

Finally, he lifted his wand and began to cast the first revealing spells over it, separating the potion into its component parts and studying the ingredients to see what she'd changed. He hoped she'd drawn a blank and continued to follow the directions as they were written. A year ago he would have all but staked his life on it that she would be unable to deviate from those instructions while they remained written before her eyes.

He studied each ingredient in turn and then recombined them, casting another spell to determine the method in which they were combined.

It took him nearly another hour to complete his examination of the potion. He was far more thorough than he usually was, determined to be sure that he'd followed every step of her progress.

And then he re-corked the vial and set it aside, closing his eyes slowly and shaking his head.

0 0 0

"Have a seat, Miss Granger. Biscuit?" Minerva McGonagall held out a tin, and Hermione picked out a piece of shortbread, breaking it in half before taking a bite. She chewed methodically, rolling the sweet, buttery crumbs around on her tongue.

"Miss Granger—Hermione. I owe you an apology. I am no longer your Head of House, but I hoped to be able to continue on closer terms than mere Professor and student. I admit, I've come to think of you as something of a protégé."

Hermione smiled wanly. "I understand, Professor. Thank you so much for saying that, I'm…flattered, really."

"I need to ask you something, my dear." The Headmistress looked tense, as though she didn't quite know how to proceed. Hermione prepared herself for some uncomfortable questions about Ron. She supposed someone had seen them kissing somewhere and reported them…

"How are your lessons with Professor Snape going?"

_What?_ "Er—well, they're really wonderful, actually. I'm learning a lot."

"I'm very glad to hear that. I did think about having you study Transfiguration privately with me as well, but you tested best in Potions by far and I thought you might not appreciate being torn away from your fellow students in more than one class."

Hermione took another bite of the biscuit, hoping it masked some of her surprise. Potions had never been her best subject and she'd more or less left off studying it since leaving school. Although, she _had_ spent the entire summer reading about how to make the _Verus Ortus_ potion, and that might have had something to do with it.

"Have you noticed anything, well, _unusual_ during your lessons?"

There was no way to hide her surprise at that. "Unusual? Like what?"

"Simply—anything unusual." Professor McGonagall looked even more uncomfortable than before. Hermione didn't know what she was hoping to hear (or hoping _not_ to hear). She shrugged.

"He never even talks, most days. Everything is written down on the board or on parchment for me to take with me."

"I see. Hermione, I'd like you to do me a favor."

"Of course, Professor."

"If anything unusual or unexpected does happen, please alert me."

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, no! I only mean that Professor Snape—well, the end of the war changed him. I am only asking you to be alert on my behalf. I cannot be as attentive to him as I would like, and I do worry about him. He's been through so much."

"Oh. Well, yes, I can do that."

"You may return to your Common Room, Hermione. And rest assured, Mr. Weasley will be just fine."

She managed to smile. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall."

0 0 0

"That went well," commented Albus dryly. "I believe you managed to thoroughly confuse one of the best minds this school has ever seen."

"I couldn't say it, Albus. You saw her face when she came in her. Her boyfriend is in the hospital wing because his sister came practically unhinged in the middle of dinner. Her best friend is _dating_ that sister and goodness only knows how that will turn out. She's taking more classes than she ought to be—again—and enduring private lessons with Severus, all while fulfilling her prefect duties and writing extra inches on every one of her essays. She has done all of that with remarkably good grace. How can I burden her with something like that?"

"Ah yes," murmured Albus thoughtfully. "It is a dilemma I am deeply familiar with. How we long to protect our children, Minerva, even after their childhood is gone."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: This is the longest chapter yet, by nearly 1000 words. It simply would not _stop_. Yikes. 

Reviewers, thank you again so much for everything you have to say. Not only do you encourage me to write more, some of you inspire me with ideas that I would never have otherwise had for where to go with this story. Thank you a million times over.

On Banaghan Brew:

_He beats Banaghan; an Irish saying of one who tells wonderful stories. Perhaps Banaghan was a minstrel famous for dealing in the marvellous._ (From "The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue")


	19. The Halloween Ball

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 19: The Halloween Ball**

* * *

The classroom door opened and she walked in. Severus kept his head bent low over the essay he was correcting, his face so close to the parchment that his nose almost touched it. From this vantage point, he could watch her without worrying that she might notice the movement of his eyes. The day's assignment was already up on the board; she set her bag down and immediately began to work on the new potion. 

He waited until she'd gathered all of her ingredients and laid them out carefully on her worktable before he straightened himself up and spoke:

"Miss Granger."

She looked up immediately, fixing her attention on him. "Yes, sir?"

"You will please approach my desk."

Obediently, she set down her silver knife and walked over to him, looking at him expectantly. The vial she'd turned in at her last lesson was once again sitting on his desk, and he saw her eyes wander towards it.

"I have had sufficient time to examine your last potion, Miss Granger, and I wish to discuss it with you." He looked down, minutely examining his fingernails and scraping an imaginary fleck of dirt out from underneath them. His hands were always impeccably clean. To keep them otherwise would prove disastrous in a laboratory. Still, it was a useful affectation.

"Yes, sir?" There was a hint of guarded anticipation in her voice, although she kept it as hidden as she could.

"What could possibly have led you to believe that it was a good idea to combine Syrup of Hellebore with the crushed bouncing bulb before you added it to your potion?"

He could see the change in her body language as he spoke. She became defensive very quickly. "You _told_ me to, sir."

"I?" he raised one eyebrow incredulously. "I never told you to attempt such a thing."

"You told me to alter the recipe."

"And you chose to do it in this manner?"

"Obviously, sir." She looked tense and uncomfortable, but not entirely unsure of herself.

"Explain."

"Well, sir—according to _The Potioneer's Portfolio_, taking the Banaghan Brew with any regularity leads to a significant over-enthusiasm, to the point where the flights of fancy it provokes become unbelievable even to the most uncritical audience. It occurred to me that the calming effects of the Syrup of Hellebore when specifically combined with the bouncing bulb would reduce that effect."

"And the reason that you let the potion seethe for twice the required amount of time after your unorthodox addition, Miss Granger?"

From the way her jaw was working, he thought that she was probably grinding her teeth. He watched her silently, waiting for her to master herself and speak.

"The Fifth Fundamental Law of Potion-Making states that when multiple ingredients are added simultaneously, the relative assimilation times of all of those ingredients must be taken into account. The ingredient which takes longest to assimilate itself into the potion is the one which determines the length of time that must elapse before the next ingredient can be added." It was almost a direct quotation from her textbook. She shifted her weight irritably as she continued:

"Syrup of Hellebore takes twice as long to assimilate into an acidic potion as bouncing bulb does."

One last question to go. He forced himself not to take a deep breath beforehand. No reason for her to know that anything hinged on these answers.

"And why, during the final step, did you stir the potion in a figure-eight motion instead of a circular one?"

She hesitated, and he watched her defensiveness turn into discomfort. The change made him uneasy. As long as she felt sure that she'd done the right thing, that her decisions were justifiable, she'd remain defensive if he questioned him. Which meant…

"I—don't know, sir."

His heart sank, and he narrowed his eyes. "You don't know?"

"It seemed like the right thing to do."

"But you do not know why?"

A pause. "No."

"Very well. You may return to your work."

"Sir? How did I do?"

He frowned repressively. "As always, Miss Granger, you will receive your marks at the end of the week."

She nodded and walked away, turning her entire focus to her worktable once again. He watched, as she grew absorbed in the work, chopping ingredients and transferring them to the cauldron in minute, precise quantities. Only when he was sure that she was completely buried in her work did he allow himself to consider her answers.

The first two changes could have been a result of intellect. She was capable of sound logical thinking, he knew, and she was better read than any other student in the school. He could explain those away as flukes.

But for her to change the dictated stirring pattern without knowing why, other than that it 'felt right'? That was a move born purely of instinct, and an accurate instinct at that. They had not yet had any discussion regarding the influence of runes in potion making and the magical effect that different stirring patterns could have. She had no way to know that her change would mean the difference between failure and success.

And yet she had done it.

It was true, then. There was no other reasonable explanation. She was not a careless person. It must have taken an incredibly strong instinct to push her in that direction, almost a sixth sense. Such a talent was rare. Lily had it. He'd had it. Horace Slughorn had it as well, although the man wasted his talents on social networking and crystallized pineapple.

Miss Granger, though—if she'd been possessed of it before, it would have manifested itself by now. She would not have been merely the best Potions student in her year, but the best in a decade, at the very least. And there was only one thing that explained how she could have come by a supposedly innate quality like that one within the last year.

Now that he was sure, _really_ sure, he didn't know what to do next. It was bad enough to fear, but to have his fears confirmed was worse. He looked back down at the essay he was supposed to be grading, but his mind wandered instead through possible strategies for dealing with her.

Silence had been an effective tactic so far, but that could only continue for so long. Even with a student as quick as she was, some things couldn't be taught through mere reading assignments and practice sessions. Eventually they would come up on something that needed to be explained.

He thought back to Lily, lying beside him in their tree, his mother's old Potions textbooks lying in front of them. By halfway through their fifth year, they'd made two-thirds of the way through his mother's old copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_. She would read and talk and explain and theorize, and he'd scribble notes in the margins, content to listen to Lily instead of really stretching himself. Occasionally they worked out new variations to try and a few times he made intuitive jumps of his own that turned out to be almost as brilliant as hers, even before the incident that really propelled him to excel in the field.

When they'd been friends working together, there had been no reason to strive to be the best. He was willing to merely follow where Lily led. After their fight—he frowned irritably—after she'd _rejected_ him, it took on a new importance. He'd gone back through that book as well as all the rest, filling in details, painstakingly memorizing the steps of each potion and then making guesses about how one might alter them.

It had taken a great deal of pain and loneliness to forge Severus Snape into a Potions Master. As he surreptitiously watched Miss Granger maneuver around the cauldron, focusing intently on her task, he wondered what might motivate her to do the same. It had never occurred to him that he might someday find someone worth mentoring the way his colleagues mentored their pet students. But if the instinct that made him great had truly imprinted itself on her as well (as he now believed it must have done) she might be molded into something truly brilliant.

They were opposites, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. He did not even bother trying to fathom how it could be possible for them to be so similar that their souls had become linked, but his test had proved it sufficiently to convince him. If only he understood her better. If only he knew how to draw her further in to the subject…

_No!_ He pulled himself back. It was impossible, and he refused to do it. She would remain his student and _only_ his student. He refused to be interested in anything about her, especially not something so utterly irrelevant as the motivations behind her study patterns and choice of subject. It was unsafe to do otherwise. If he befriended the girl and word got out to the rogue Death Eaters still at large around the country, her life would be in danger. In the minds of the Death Eaters, he was public enemy number one, and anybody who associated closely with him would be endangered.

"_You are free, Sev_," said Lily's voice in his mind.

_No, I'm _not_, Lily_.

He could do nothing but maintain the same frosty distance as ever, no matter how intelligent and apt a pupil she was. He dipped his quill in the inkwell and then scratched a spiky 'T' onto the essay below him, forcing himself to think malevolent thoughts about the incompetent Belladonna Ziller, shame on her house that she was. If he were head of Hufflepuff House (Merlin forbid!) he'd have quite a discussion with her about her ridiculous assertion that a bezoar was a variety of plant that fed mainly on goats but devoured unsuspecting mountain climbers as well.

0 0 0

Ron was in the hospital wing for two days, and had to take a regular restorative potion for a week before Madame Pomfrey was satisfied that there was no danger of his internal wounds re-opening. It was three days before Arthur Weasley returned Ginny to school, depositing her outside the portrait of the Fat Lady with a glare that was eerily reminiscent of his wife in her worst tempers. Ginny, for her part, refused to speak to anyone in the Common Room, running upstairs instead and throwing herself on her bed.

"Ginny?" Hermione stood in the doorway, looking at the girl's prone form. She lay head down, her voice muffled by her pillow when she spoke:

"Go away."

"I don't want to."

"No? Even though I attacked precious _Ronniekins_?" she sneered bitterly. "The Boy Who Can Do No Wrong? Because everyone else seems to think it's a good reason to stay away from me."

"Ginny, you've just got back. You've hardly had a chance to find out what 'everyone else' thinks."

"Mum and dad made it pretty clear."

"It's possible that in their anger over the fact that you punctured your brother's lungs with his own ribcage, they might have exaggerated slightly." Hermione sat down and rested her hand on Ginny's. "Look, what he said was _completely_ out of line. I don't blame you for being angry. I was furious with him. But you've got to control your temper, Gin. You're letting it get out of hand. You can't just go around throwing hexes and curses at everyone who says something horrible to you."

"He's a twat and I hate him."

"He's your brother, and no you don't."

"I wanted to go." It was just barely a whisper, so soft that Hermione almost missed it. "I wanted to do something, and all anybody ever allowed me was to wander around and be _useless_."

"You got your moment, in the end." She stretched out on the bed beside her best friend, resting her head on her arms and staring at the headboard.

"I'm sick of being the youngest," she muttered rebelliously. "I'm sick of being the only girl. It's like having six extra fathers… f-five extra fathers. I'm sick of my whole bloody family."

"I know."

She snorted. "How would _you_ know?"

"Possibly because I've spent nearly eight years listening to Ron complaining about how much he hates being in the shadow of his older brothers. I know the whole story by heart. You're both brilliant in your own right, though, so it doesn't impress me much anymore."

"I wasn't planning to hurt him."

Hermione sighed. "Why did you?"

"I don't know. I was so angry, I didn't think. It just happened."

"It will be ok, Ginny," she murmured, wishing she believed it was really true.

0 0 0

Hermione and Ginny might have patched things up quickly, but it took until Halloween before she and Ron could speak to each other civilly. Every time he saw his sister coming, he simply got up and left without a word, his face hard. Hermione and Harry both found this infuriating—Harry because he hated being forced to choose between his best friend and his girlfriend, and Hermione for almost identical reasons.

"He's more like Percy than I used to think," said Ginny loudly to Hermione one day as Ron hurried away. "Too much of a prat to come work things out."

It was meant to sting, and it did. He whirled around, walking close to her and jabbing his finger into her face.

"Don't try that line on me, Ginny. You tried to _kill _me."

"Don't be an ass," she answered quietly. "I've tried to explain and I've tried to apologize and sooner or later you're going to have to bloody get over it. You said something really awful. I lost my temper. Things got out of hand. I'm _sorry_."

He stared at her for a long time and then shrugged abruptly. "Fine. You're sorry."

"And?"

"And—I forgive you, I guess."

"What, you're going to forgive me now, just like that?"

"Percy may have reformed, but I still don't appreciate the comparison. Besides, Hermione's made it very clear she won't let me snog her again until we kiss and make up."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "You're never getting snogged again, then. As if I'd kiss you! Eugh."

He laughed awkwardly, then ran one hand through his hair, looking away.

"Look, Gin—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. As soon as I got out of the hospital wing, Hermione and Harry both let me have it."

"Shut up about it already. Chess?"

He sat down, summoning his chess set and laying the pieces out. Hermione watched them in silence. The Weasleys seemed to have a talent for simply pretending things had never happened and moving on, once the appropriate apologies had been made. She wished she was able to do it with the same seeming ease.

0 0 0

"I devised a test, Albus."

"How very like you, Severus. What was it?"

He rested one hand on his neck, unconsciously rubbing his palm over the scar that lay beneath his high collar. "I interrupted her halfway through a lesson and demanded that she alter her potion in the middle of brewing it. In the past, she has always done well, but she showed no creativity or instinct for the art. If she remained unchanged, the demand ought to have posed her quite a bit of difficulty, if it did not lead to complete failure."

The Headmaster nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. Yes, that was a very clever way of going about it, Severus. What happened?"

"She made three changes. The first two, I could have dismissed as a happy side effect of her insistence on constantly studying more than she needs to. The last—I can think of no explanation other than that some degree of my own skill has been transferred to her."

The old man in the portrait did not answer immediately. He gazed thoughtfully across the room, his eyes fixed on an empty spot in the wall.

"I do not believe 'transferred' is the appropriate word, Severus. More like 'imprinted,' I should think."

He shifted restlessly. "Be that as it may, Headmaster. It certainly is a confirmation of my suspicions."

Albus Dumbledore smiled dryly. "Had my own suspicions required any more confirmation, this certainly would have sufficed. Tell me—what about you, Severus? Have you noticed any changes in yourself?"

"In myself, Headmaster? I—no."

One white eyebrow quirked upward. "Really? I find that most surprising, given your recent discovery about Miss Granger."

"I have been employing Occlumency against her," he said stiffly.

"Indeed? I should have known. However, Occlumency should not have much effect in this case. The damage has already been done, Severus although it seems that it has not yet manifested itself in you fully."

"I see no reason not to do everything in my power to minimize it!"

Dumbledore looked down at his hands idly. "Severus, have you considered taking her on as an apprentice?"

"Why would I want to do anything so unpleasant?"

"For one thing, because I believe it would _not_ be unpleasant. You know as well as I do that she is an incredibly gifted witch, and if she has indeed been imprinted with some of your own talent for Potions, it would be a waste not to train her in the field as she deserves."

"Your machinations have become as two-dimensional as your face, Albus. I am not so easily manipulated."

"My dear Severus," the Headmaster replied blandly, "whatever do you mean by that?"

He gritted his teeth. "I mean that I do not appreciate your efforts to throw me together with the girl. I have no choice but to continue her lessons, but I categorically refuse to do more. Not only would further interaction with Granger be completely against my own inclinations and desires, it would be _dangerous_ for her. Are you truly such a fool as to not understand that?"

Dumbledore closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Ah, yes, so you have her best interests at heart. I should have known."

"Yes I do," snapped Severus angrily. "And I am tired of your meddling."

"Alas! The life of a portrait, as you have so often indicated, is terribly boring."

"You told me you were too intelligent to be bored."

"Did I? In that case, I must have some other reason to think these discussions are worth my time. If you'll excuse me, Severus, I am quite tired and I believe I shall take a nap."

0 0 0

The tables were cleared out of the Great Hall, and it was decorated lavishly in rich hangings of gold and black. Hagrid had outdone himself in the matter of giant pumpkins, and several of them had been carved into lanterns large enough to hold several people. Professor Flitwick hurried through the room, creating huge, charmed bonfires inside the lanterns. In spite of their size, they gave off no heat, and would burn all night without damaging the pumpkins themselves.

Severus stood in a corner, watching the other professors working. Minerva was directing two prefects as they hung the last few drapes. Madame Hooch and Professor Sprout were overseeing the House-Elves as they levitated huge bowls of punch into the Hall. Horace Slughorn stood with another group of prefects, pompously lecturing them on their duties for the night. Unbidden anxiety jolted in his chest as Severus saw Miss Granger, listening to Slughorn with an air of detachment.

"Professor?" a voice broke into his thoughts. Draco Malfoy had broken away from the other prefects was standing a few feet from him.

"Draco."

"I wanted to thank you, sir."

He raised one eyebrow. Draco moved in closer, lowering his voice.

"For setting such a good example, sir. Without your lead, I don't think I would have been bold enough to change sides—"

"I see." Draco's white-blond hair had grown almost as long as his father's, and was hanging around his face in a way that reminded him disturbingly of Lucius. "How are your parents, Draco?"

The boy's face went hard. "My father is as well as can be expected. My mother is… is ill, I think."

"Ill?"

"I'm sure you don't really have an interest in hearing about it, sir." Oh, but he played the game well. He was as smoothly manipulative as Lucius had ever been. Draco lowered his eyes sadly, hanging back, forcing Severus to draw him out. He glanced around carefully before answering, ensuring that nobody else was within earshot. He was not such a fool as to think that he was popular enough to risk being overheard.

"As you are well aware, Draco, my friendship with your parents predates the war. I deeply regret their current—status."

"They've brought the Dementors back to Azkaban. She's become so frail, sir, I… I don't know what to do."

"I will do what is in my power to assist you. However, your parents would have done well to take the advice I gave them several months ago when I offered them protection. I can do much less for them now."

Draco looked at him hopefully, and for a moment Severus could almost believe that the boy was not quite as vile as his previous behavior had always indicated.

"I make no promises," he reminded sternly. "However, a request for medical attention might carry more weight coming from me than from you." He looked around the room again, picking Miss Granger out from the other students before he noticed what he was doing. With a frown, he forced himself to look back down at Draco.

"Thank you, sir!" Draco said enthusiastically, if not happily.

"Ah, Draco m'boy," beamed Slughorn, waddling in their direction. "There you are! I wonder if you would help Miss Granger levitate those last small pumpkins to the top of the pile. That's a good boy." He watched approvingly as Draco pulled out his wand and hurried over to join the girl. Severus curled his lip in disgust. Slughorn might be an excellent Potions teacher, but he was a sycophant of the worst order. Since Draco's 'reform,' Horace had become much more genial with the boy, apparently viewing him as potential Ministry material. The end of the war certainly hadn't increased Draco's natural intelligence or academic performance in the slightest.

Professor Slughorn bustled away again and Severus allowed himself to watch Draco as he approached Miss Granger. She turned towards him and Severus nearly stumbled backwards with the force of the loathing that abruptly washed through him.

Shaken, he wrenched his mind free of the emotion. She'd turned around again and seemed to be working amiably enough with Draco. He stared for a moment and then turned and left the room, walking swiftly through the Entrance Hall and out the door.

The cold air refreshed him and brought him somewhat back to himself. Whatever had just happened, he didn't like it at all. He did not entirely understand how, but he knew it had something to do with Hermione Granger.

He thought fleetingly of Potter's experiences of living with the Dark Lord's Horcrux in his forehead, and the sudden flashes of insight into Voldemort's feelings and emotions that the boy had experienced. The comparison sickened him. Was he to be the girl's personal Voldemort? Was she to be _his_? Had they created, between them, a thing as repulsive as that?

0 0 0

An hour into the ball, Hermione was exhausted. Ron insisted on dancing with her frequently, and although he didn't step on her toes, he was not entirely easy to dance with. She stood in a corner, fanning herself with one hand while she waited for Ron to return with a drink.

"Having fun, Hermione?" Ginny and Harry, flushed and laughing, joined her in the corner. Ginny had been attempting to teach Harry a very enthusiastic and very complicated traditional Wizard dance, until he trod on her foot and they both nearly lost their balance.

"Couldn't be better," she answered wryly.

"Hermione!" said Neville, hurrying up to her, a bit red in the face from exertion himself. "Will you dance with me? I've been waiting to ask all night but Ron hasn't left you alone until now."

She was exhausted, and her feet ached, but Neville was smiling hopefully at her and holding his arms out, and she couldn't say no.

"Just for you, Neville." She forced herself to smile and he swept her into his arms. A waltz was playing, and Neville was really an excellent dancer; being led around the floor in his arms was far more relaxing and far less perilous than the same activity with Ron.

"You look beautiful, Hermione. Ron's luckier than he knows," said Neville fondly, surveying her gold dress robes with a look of brotherly satisfaction.

She laughed. "I don't know about that."

"I do," he answered soberly. "If I didn't have my heart set on someone else, I'd be completely jealous of Ron."

"Oh really? Who have you got your heart set on?"

He clasped her hand and her waist more tightly, lifting her into the air and spinning her gracefully. They both laughed—the move had been so uncharacteristically graceful of Neville that neither of them could help seeing the humor in it.

"There's no reason to tell you. Her affections are occupied elsewhere."

"Hmm. Professor Sprout, is it?"

"Hermione!"

"Honestly, Neville, after what you did during the battle, you're a hero. You could have any girl you wanted."

"I only want her," he said simply. "But someone else got there before me. It's okay. I've come to terms with it."

She looked at him quietly for a moment, watching the light change on his face as they moved through the Hall. "You've turned into quite a man, Neville." He blushed boyishly at that, and the illusion of adulthood vanished from his face just as quickly as it had appeared.

"So," she said. "I've been meaning to ask you, Neville—how did you get the blood from Professor Snape?"

He grinned widely. "It was wonderful. We were practicing nonverbal dueling and he threw a hex at me—I don't know what it was, but I got my shield charm up before it hit me and it bounced back and knocked him into the wall so hard I think he passed out. He bit right through his lip. Blood running all down his face and robes--really gory, especially for a wound that small. I just ran up and dashed some into the bottle while his eyes were closed."

"Professor Snape actually lets you aim a wand at him?"

"Shocked me the first time, too. He's been loads nicer to me this year than ever before, though. Don't know what's changed, unless it's something to do with the war ending, but--"

"Excuse me, Longbottom," drawled a cold voice. "I'd like to cut in."

They stopped short. Hermione froze, and Neville's hand flexed protectively on her shoulder. His eyes moved swiftly over her face, taking in her sudden tension.

"I'm dancing with her right now, Malfoy."

Draco Malfoy's lip curled into an unpleasant sneer. "Oddly enough, I was already aware of that, Longbottom. Now stand aside. I'm cutting in."

Neville didn't move. "I don't think so."

"What happened to inter-house cooperation, Longbottom? It doesn't pay to be rude in front of the Headmistress, and she's right over there. Step aside."

Neville gave her a swift, appraising look. "McGonagall's got an eye on you. Will you be alright?"

"Shut up, Longbottom. I'm not going to hurt her. Unlike _you_, I actually know _how_ to dance." Draco shoved Neville aside, sliding his arm around Hermione's waist and his hand into hers before Neville could react.

"Too bad, really," he said smoothly as he swept her back into the dance. "Some pureblood families simply neglect to teach their children proper manners."

"Funny, Malfoy, I didn't know you were so self-aware."

Her heart was pounding uncomfortably fast and she looked around desperately for one of the boys. None of her friends were immediately visible, but Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall were both watching. It made her feel moderately safer, and she frowned, not wanting to be rude and walk away from him in front of them.

A glint of anger flashed in his eyes, disappearing almost as soon as she'd seen it. "Very witty, Granger." He pulled her closer, smirking at her discomfort. "Do you know what it reminds me of, dancing with you?" His head was bent over hers, and she could feel his breath on her ear. Shuddering, she tried to pull back. He didn't let her. Although they looked relaxed enough, his arms were clasped around her with surprising force.

"Fifth year," he whispered. "Do you remember, Granger? _Hermione_?" His voice was mockingly sensual and she felt her stomach turn.

"Let go of me, Malfoy."

"Oh I don't think I will, Granger. We're dancing, remember?"

"Let me go!"

He dug his fingers into her waist, jerking her still closer to him and making her wince in pain. "Not until I'm ready, Granger. And I'm definitely not ready to let you go just yet. It's been so long since we've been so _close_. I feel like reminiscing."

She felt her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment and anger. "Get _off_, Draco!" His proximity and the familiarity with which he was now stroking her back were making her feel horribly ill.

"Let go of her, Malfoy," snarled an angry voice. Apparently it held a level of threat that Hermione's hadn't, for Draco let go of her and took a step back, holding his hands up amicably.

"Sorry, Weasley. Didn't think you'd mind letting your girlfriend have one dance with me"

"Keep your filthy Death Eater's hands off of her, Malfoy."

Ron had his wand out and was pointing it at Draco with a look of frightening determination. The blond Slytherin pulled his own wand out, raising it defensively.

"Making trouble, Weasley? I would've thought you already had as much of that as you could handle, what with your crazy sister—"

"Walk away, Malfoy, before I curse you into next week."

"Threatening me, Weasley? Very manly." His eyes swept over them. Ron had put his arm around Hermione's waist and pulled her to himself, his wand still pointed at Malfoy's face. "She's not worth the effort anyway," he sneered, sheathing his wand and turning away.

"Oh Ron—"

He let go of her, his eyes no less angry as they moved from Malfoy's face to hers. "What was _that_ all about?"

"I was dancing with Neville and Draco cut in—"

"You certainly looked cozy."

"He wouldn't let go of me!"

"I _noticed_," he hissed. "And you didn't seem to be doing much about it. I leave you alone for five minutes, only to come back and find you cheek to cheek with Draco bloody Malfoy! What am I supposed to think of that, Hermione?"

She drew herself up. "At the very most, all you have the right to think is that I was dancing with a Slytherin, which isn't a sin, Ron!"

"It is when the Slytherin is Malfoy. Or have you forgotten that he's a Death Eater?"

"I had no choice! He grabbed me!" The memory made her feel sick all over again, as though a nest of snakes was writhing in her stomach.

"You should have hexed him." They'd made their way back to the corner by now. Harry and Ginny were watching them anxiously, as was Neville, who had apparently alerted them to the situation.

"I was not about to hex another prefect in front of Professor Snape and the Headmistress."

"Convenient excuse," he sneered.

"Fine!" She blinked hard as tears began to pool in her eyes, making them sting painfully. "Don't believe me. I don't care. I'm not going to waste my time trying to defend myself when I haven't done anything wrong. I'm tired of this."

"So you're going to throw me over for _Malfoy_, is that it?" he shouted. "What kind of a whore—"

"Ron—" said Harry warningly.

But Hermione had already turned and fled.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Before you ask what Draco's talking about, I'm referencing something purely out of my imagination that doesn't get mentioned during Order of the Phoenix (mainly because OotP is from Harry's perspective and he has no idea it happened). All will be explained in subsequent chapters. 

Yes, Ron is being uncharacteristically awful. There's an explanation for that, too.

Shorter chapter again, but there will be more soon (hopefully by tomorrow).

Reviewers.. I'm running out of ways to tell you how much I appreciate you. If you don't already know, you are wonderful and you completely make it worthwhile to write this, even when I'm slogging through the minor but necessary plot points that don't really inspire me while I try to get on to the good stuff.


	20. Chasing Hermione

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Chasing Hermione**

* * *

"Hermione!" Ron shouted, his voice echoing after her down the hallway. She stopped running and spun around, tears by now streaming openly down her face.

"_Avis_!" she cried furiously, a flock of golden birds bursting from the tip of her wand and streaking off, at her command, to pursue him.

"_Protego!_" The birds hit an invisible wall and dispersed, twittering angrily. "I'm sorry! Hermione, you need to stop and listen to me!"

"No I don't, Ron! I'm tired of listening to you! _Locomotor Mortis_!"

There was a thud as the curse hit him and his legs locked. He must have fallen. She could hear him sputtering wetly; he appeared to have broken his nose against the floor. He lifted his head from the floor and she saw blood streaming down his face.

"'Erbione," he called after her. "Stob!"

She turned without another word and continued running, clutching her wand fiercely. As she rounded a corner, she heard Harry catching up to Ron, and the distant muttering of a healing spell. She didn't care. She had to get away from him. She had to get away from all of them. She rounded another corner and realized she'd made a circuit of the castle. She was back in the Entrance Hall. One of the doors stood slightly ajar, presumably left that way by some couple sneaking out to find solitude in the grounds. Glancing over her shoulder to be sure nobody was following her, she slipped out the door herself.

The air was cold and humid and she felt the chill of it immediately. Her dress robes were flimsy and did little to protect against the late October cold. It didn't bother her—rather, she welcomed the cold after the heat of the Great Hall and the discomfort of facing first Draco and then Ron.

She could still hear the faint sounds of music coming from within the castle, distant and friendly, but she felt shut out from it somehow. She had no part in that music, and although she was still shaking with furious sobs, she found a twisted sort of satisfaction in being out in the cold darkness, alone. She knew where she stood.

The quiet of the night soothed her, and she slowly stopped crying, wiping her eyes. Something overtook her that was not peace; it was more like silence. She wasn't sure she liked it.

Beyond her initial fury with Ron, she realized, she felt nothing. As she stood, she waited for pain, for disappointment, for sadness—anything. But she was empty. Hesitantly, she explored her feelings. Nothing. She could call Ron's face into her mind but, beyond a twinge of annoyance with his idiocy, there was a void.

It frightened her so badly that she almost ran back inside, if only for the sake of being near someone who was alive. She began to go through her mental catalogue of friends. Harry—nothing. Ginny—nothing. Her mum and dad—nothing. She knew so well how she ought to feel about each of them, knew exactly how to act, what they would expect from her, but she felt nothing about them.

She began to walk, heading towards the lake and sitting at the base of an ancient willow tree. The lights of the castle were reflected in the water; she watched as they rippled endlessly out into the night. The lake was peaceful and quiet, and she stared into it idly, wondering what it would feel like to wade in until she was swallowed up completely—perhaps attacked by grindylows, or dragged into the depths by merfolk.

The depth of her detachment alarmed her. She kept staring bleakly into the black water, struggling to force herself to feel something. But nothing came. All of her dread, her fear, her anger—everything had simply faded away, leaving in its place not peace but a horrible sort of emptiness. She wasn't sure when she had ever felt so isolated.

"Did you look by the lake yet?" a voice drifted across the grounds. Harry's. Her head snapped around towards the direction of the sound and she saw a dim light bobbing up and down as he walked, flanked by three silhouettes.

"Not yet." That was Ron. Harry raised his wand and the light grew brighter, stretching across the grass. Another few meters and the light would almost touch her.

She wanted to hex them for coming after her when she obviously wanted to be alone. More than that, though, she wanted to get away before they found her. She jumped to her feet, looking around. They were approaching quickly and if she ran, they would surely hear her. She looked up.

The tree had a low-hanging branch, and she jumped. The first time, she slipped, but the second time, she got her arms around it and hoisted herself up. She felt her robe catch on the bark and tear, but she ignored it. The flimsy material would be easy enough to repair when Ron and Harry were gone. She crouched on the branch, holding her breath and listening.

Their voices came closer. "Neville, Ginny, go look that way. We'll go this way. Send up green sparks if you find her and we'll come meet you."

She heard Neville and Ginny trotting away. Harry and Ron, however, stopped walking.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Harry's voice was low; she had to strain to hear it.

"Of course we should. I love her, Harry. I can't let her just run off in the dark and be alone."

Harry was making a face. She could hear it in his voice. "Listen, mate. If you love her, you can't go around saying things like that all the time. I don't blame her for running away. You're worse than Ginny when it comes to running at the mouth."

"Don't talk about my sister that way!"

"She knows I talk about her that way and she doesn't mind, because she admits that she's got problems keeping her tongue under control. You, on the other hand, refuse to admit that and then you go around calling Hermione awful things that you don't mean and constantly having to try and patch things up. I'm getting tired of helping you."

"You didn't see her with Draco." The jealous note was still in his voice.

Harry snorted impatiently. "This is what I'm talking about, Ron. Are you listening to yourself? I thought we went over this when you destroyed the Horcrux. She loves _you_—or she did do, before you went insane."

Wandlight flashed across the ground directly beneath her and she scurried closer to the trunk of the tree, hoping she could avoid being seen.

"Think she came this way?" muttered Ron. Their voices were coming steadily closer. She looked around desperately for a way to hide herself better and caught sight of another branch, just slightly higher up. She stood up carefully, keeping one hand on the tree trunk for balance, and jumped.

"I haven't been to this tree since before the battle," said Harry softly.

"What's so important about this tree?"

"It's the place where Snape called my mum a mudblood. That's what stopped them being friends."

She hit the branch with her stomach, gasping softly. For a moment she hung there, waiting to see if they noticed the noise, but it was quiet and the lake was sending small waves to lap loudly against the shore. If they noticed, neither of them mentioned it. Carefully, she hoisted herself up, climbing onto the branch.

"I saw that memory in fifth year."

"What? How could you have seen it in fifth year?"

"Occlumency lessons, remember? That's the reason Snape kicked me out. I thought it was because my dad was being awful to him and embarrassing him, but that wasn't it. It was because he called my mum a—that."

"Blimey, Harry, why didn't you ever tell me?"

There was a pause, and she imagined Harry's shrug. "Wasn't really my business."

The hanging branches rustled as they pushed them aside and stepped through. She could see the glint of Harry's glasses as the wandlight hit them. He was pointing his wand into the shadows, looking around thoughtfully. She realized suddenly that he was going to look up, and there was no way she would be able to stay hidden if he was really looking.

She wasn't sure exactly what made her turn around, but she did—and there behind her was a wide crack in the tree. She saw, as if in slow motion, Harry's wand begin to point upwards, and before she could consider what she was doing, she ducked through the crack.

Every inch of her skin began to tingle as she crawled through the crack, and she realized with a sense of shock that she was breaching some sort of ward. Still, it wasn't stopping her from passing through, although she half expected it to. She kept going and emerged into a sort of room fashioned out of the tree. Stars winked down at her from the cold, clear sky above. She lit her wand and looked around. A small stack of books and papers sat in one corner, next to an old, corroded cauldron.

"Weird, thinking about Snape being in school," said Ron, his voice distant.

"She's not here, let's look somewhere else."

0 0 0

He grabbed Draco's arm, yanking him into an alcove.

"Idiot boy!" he hissed. "What are you thinking of?"

Malfoy shook his arm free, his lip sticking out in an expression that could, with only a little coaxing, develop into a full-blown pout.

"I just wanted to dance with her," he said.

"And so you frighten her, insult her, manhandle her and threaten her boyfriend in front of the entire school? Where is your subtlety? I may be willing to overlook many old habits in you, Draco, but the rest of the world is _not_. You have an appearance to keep up!" his head was down, mere inches from the boy's, and he hissed menacingly. As long as he was unsure of Draco Malfoy's ultimate loyalty, he would do all he could to discover it and to keep him in line in the meantime.

"She was rude first," he muttered sullenly.

"Giving you a golden opportunity to display a bit of charm and win her over, if you desired her. But no, you terrorize her! I am not interested in lending aid to a fool, Draco!" Even as he spoke, he scanned the hallway for any sign of her. She'd gotten into some kind of altercation with the Weasley boy—thanks to Malfoy—and run off on her own. Hogwarts might be safe, but he did not let _any_ students get away with wandering about unchaperoned on the night of a ball, and if she had gone outside…

"--You're an _idiot_, Ron." Ginevra Weasley's voice echoed towards him.

"Out of my sight, Draco," he hissed. "If you wish to carry on like this, I will have nothing to do with you. Show a little discretion next time!"

"I'be SODDY, okay?" As Draco hurried away, Severus walked in the opposite direction, wrapping his robes about him to keep them from fluttering noticeably. He rounded a corner stealthily and came upon the Gryffindors, clustered around a bloody-faced Ronald Weasley. Drawing back into the shadows, he watched them.

"_Episkey,_" said Harry impatiently, pointing his wand at Ron's nose, which regained something of its former shape. "She's right. You _are_ an idiot."

"Fine already! I'm an idiot. Help me find her so I can tell her that."

Ginny Weasley snorted in a most unladylike fashion. "At least you're learning how to admit it quickly instead of drawing it out for days. Which way did she go?"

"Up the hallway." Ron pointed vaguely. "Coming, Neville?"

Longbottom was hanging back, watching them uncomfortably. "I'm not sure I should help you."

"What? Why not?"

"Because if I was her, I'd have run away from you too, and I wouldn't want you chasing after me. You're treating her terribly." He shot Ron an angry, defiant look. "I don't care what you think it looked like when you showed up. I know what it looked like when _he_ showed up, and she wasn't exactly happy about it."

Ron grunted impatiently. "I'm sorry, ok? Everyone else was right. I'm wrong. Help me find her so I can tell her that before I lose my chance. I love her, Neville, I'm going to do better. I swear."

Much to Severus' disappointment, Neville shrugged heavily and followed them. Furtively, he did the same, keeping his hand on his wand handle. He wasn't entirely sure why—perhaps it was merely years of old spying habits coming out. Surely he wouldn't need to use his wand on any students, especially not these students. Nevertheless, he kept it out. Just in case.

A number of students were on the stairs and none of them had seen Granger go up, which even the gormless Gryffindors managed to interpret correctly. They followed the hallway in its circuit instead and, seeing the open door to the outside, dashed out at once with many loud whispers and gestures.

Gripping his wand determinedly Severus, too, slipped out the door, looking around thoughtfully before he strode off into the darkness. He amused himself by thinking of the points he would take from her when he discovered her, wandering off alone in the dark, knowing that there were still Death Eaters at large. There had been a sighting just that morning in Hogsmeade, and he _knew_ she'd heard about it. And yet, the foolish girl was still out there on her own.

He'd prowled after them for maybe fifteen minutes when it happened. Longbottom and the Weasley girl had split off, leaving Potter and her witless beau to explore by the tree. They had stopped walking so that Harry could inspect the tree more closely. Wondering what they were saying he drew closer, pulling out his wand and casting a silencing charm on himself so that they would not overhear him.

"…The place where Snape called my mum a mudblood. That's what stopped them being friends." He froze. Of all things, they had to be discussing _that_.

"I saw that memory in fifth year."

"What? How could you have seen it in fifth year?"

"Occlumency lessons, remember? That's the reason Snape kicked me out. I thought it was because my dad was being awful to him and embarrassing him, but that wasn't it. It was because he called my mum a—that."

"Blimey, Harry, why didn't you ever tell me?" He dared to creep a little closer, staring through the branches at their faces. Weasley was staring at Potter with an expression of bafflement that made him look disturbingly like one of Draco's goons.

The boy shrugged. "Wasn't really my business," he muttered, obviously embarrassed.

A moment later, Severus felt it.

"No," he breathed, his body turning of its own accord towards the tree he hadn't so much as gone near in so many years. His skin prickled uncomfortably. His ward had been breached. Potter and Weasley were still standing beneath the tree, but he couldn't see Granger, which meant that she hadn't been immediately expelled from the room upon trying to enter. Which meant that she must have gotten through.

"_No_," he whispered again, more insistently this time, but he was already beginning to sneak closer the tree. She must have climbed up to hide from Potter—even as he moved, he sneered into the darkness at yet another horrible, poetic irony regarding the Potters. It had taken a Potter to make him discover the willow-room in the first place, and now a Potter had chased _her_ into it, too. The light was moving around at the foot of the willow, and he saw Potter look up. No reaction. He didn't see her, then. She _must_ have gotten through.

"Weird, thinking about Snape being in school," said Weasley, looking as though he found the thought particularly distasteful. Harry shrugged again, dropping his wand and pushing through the branches.

"She's not here, let's look somewhere else."

He listened as they rustled away, making no attempt to cover up the noise of their movements. As soon as he was sure they were gone, he pulled himself up into the tree and began to climb. It was still intimately familiar to him and he pulled himself through the branches with ease, not stopping until he reached the crack in the tree.

It was smaller than he remembered, although not by much, and it glowed with wandlight. She should not have been able to get through--not without his aid. The wards should have rejected her. But they hadn't. He could hear her footsteps inside.

He growled angrily. Once again, she was committing an unpardonable violation of his privacy. This time, however, he was not compelled to accept it. He stepped through into the room and raised his wand, a furious glare already plastered across his face.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Yet again, I find that you have insinuated yourself into a place where you have no right to be."

For the first time since the battle, she appeared to see how dangerous he could be. His eyes seemed half-mad with fury, his wand was out, and the look on his face said that he would curse her as soon as look at her. She flinched visibly, dropping the book she'd just picked up to look at.

"I—didn't know I couldn't be here—"

"You know that students are not to be wandering the grounds alone, especially at night!" he shouted. "As such, you have no legitimate reason to be here!"

There was something strange about her. Through the unreasoning rage that throbbed in his temples, he knew there was something strange about her. Something wasn't right. She was staring at him blandly, and hadn't moved since he'd first spoken. But he was too angry to wonder about it, too angry to ask her what had possessed her to run out here in the first place and, now, to look at him with those empty eyes.

"Get out," he hissed. "OUT! Twenty points from Gryffindor, and a week of detention."

She did not even protest but, with a fatalistic shrug, deftly sidestepped him and crawled back out of the room, leaving him alone with his memories.

0 0 0

Out on the branch again, she looked down to where she knew the ground was. She couldn't see it without a light, and the sensation of hanging above a void made her dizzy. Harry and Ron, she knew, were somewhere below, looking for her, but she couldn't hear them in the immediate vicinity.

She didn't want to climb down. As long as they were out there, looking for her, her luck would eventually run out. Even if she made it back to the Gryffindor tower, Ginny would locate her easily.

_How did Professor Snape know I'd be up here_? Curiosity finally began to filter into her mind and she looked over her shoulder at the hole through which she had just crawled. It looked frightening and empty without the cheerful glow of wandlight to illuminate it. In all of her years at a student, she'd never so much as heard of the existence of such a spot. It seemed like such a perfect hiding place that she thought at least Fred and George ought to have known about it.

Even the thought of Fred did nothing to rouse her emotions, and she felt again the strange, detached panic that she'd first felt while staring into the lake. Suddenly she didn't care anymore about being found, and she let herself drop lightly to the ground. Let them find her if they could. None of it mattered anyway.

0 0 0

Lighting his wand, he bent over and picked up the book that she'd dropped, smoothing out a crumpled page that was covered in two sets of handwriting—his and Lily's. Carefully, almost reverently, he returned it to its place on the top of a neat pile. She'd never come back for them after their last meeting, and neither had he.

Before, it had always been too painful to revisit the place where they'd finally said goodbye. Now, he couldn't say what it was. Strange, with the strangeness of being in a room that has not been entered in many years. Even though it was still technically outdoors, he half expected to find a thick layer of dust covering everything.

He lifted his head, squinting through the canopy of branches above him. Lily had cast some sort of protective charm to keep the effects of rain and snow away. Judging from the state of the things they'd left behind, the charm had held. Twenty years of living had imbued him with a new level of respect for his superiors, and he took a moment to admire the sheer skill required for such a feat. His own talents were not at their best when it came to Charms. Lily's had been far superior.

He crouched down, reaching out to brush his fingertips along the pitted surface of the sad, second-hand cauldron he'd scraped and saved to pay for. Remnants of past errors and triumphs jumped out at him, reviving memories long forgotten.

Abruptly, he slapped his hand against the cauldron, sending it rolling onto its side with a clatter. The girl had no right to be there, no right to stumble through his ward without being thrown unceremoniously to the ground and refused entry. She should not have had the eyes to penetrate Lily's Notice-Me-Not charm, even if it had finally begun to weaken after all the years. He trembled with wrath at the very thought of her wretched gaze profaning such secrets.

Settling onto the floor with his back against a portion of tree trunk, he picked up a book and thumbed through it, looking down at Lily's handwriting next to his own. It was similar to Hermione Granger's—neat and slightly loopy. Similar to Potter's too, now that he looked. The g's were the same. Leaning his head back against the tree, he set the book aside and extinguished his wand, looking up at the sky through the leaves once more.

Why had he come out here? There was no reason to single her out from all the other students sneaking off from the Ball. Was it the confrontation with Draco? He didn't know what they'd been saying, but she hadn't looked happy at all, and Malfoy had nearly come to blows with the Weasley boy. Was this bond going to draw him inexorably to her, whether he wished it to or not? He hadn't stopped to think—he'd merely run after them and trailed them as they searched for her.

He almost wasn't surprised that it had been he who had found her, in the end—and he who had immediately and angrily sent her away to the mercy of her so-called friends. A sliver of moon was showing, shining a dim white light onto his face. He'd frightened her. Or he should have. He didn't remember her looking frightened, come to think of it.

She was an utter mystery to him, with all of the tantalizing promises and dangers thereof. In his onetime sanctuary, he finally allowed himself to think about her. There had to be a _reason_ for the bond to have been possible. He must, he realized, be missing something fundamental about her to be so surprised by the magic. If there was one principle he was sure of, it was that magic followed its own rules consistently, regardless of one's expectations.

Could he make an apprentice of her? She was certainly intelligent enough to be useful. The more important question, he decided, was did he _want_ to?

He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the wind in the branches. How long had it been since he'd simply allowed himself to take pleasure in something like that? He couldn't even remember.

0 0 0

Without really trying, she managed to avoid her friends while she walked back over the grounds and into the castle. Nobody she encountered bothered to comment on the tears in her robe as she climbed the stairs to Gryffindor tower.

"Tom Riddle has fallen," she muttered to the Fat Lady, who beamed and swung open.

"And don't you forget it," chided the portrait as she stepped into the Common Room.

"Hermione!" Neville stood up. Apparently he'd split off from the rest and decided to come wait for her here. His face was anxious and he took a step towards her. "Are you okay?"

The sight of his face seemed to trigger a flood of exhaustion she didn't know she'd been ignoring. "I'm fine, Neville," she said, sighing.

"Everyone else is still out looking for you."

"I know."

"Hermione, I know there's not really a point to my telling you this, but Ron's a fool. Nobody blames you for walking away. He crossed the line."

She blinked slowly. "Oh—yes. You're right, I suppose. I hadn't thought about it much." Did she care about what Ron had said? Did she care about Ron, period? She lifted her hands, rubbing her palms into her eyes and stumbling slightly as she started to lose her balance. Neville caught her before she could trip.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Just tired," she mumbled. That must be the explanation, she decided. She felt nothing because she was too tired to feel anything. The confrontations with Ron and Draco had simply worn her out. She would sleep, and when she woke up, the bizarre detachment would have given way to her regular thoughts and feelings.

"I'm going up to bed, Neville. Let them know, will you?"

"I'd walk you up, but it wouldn't work."

She smiled wanly. "I know. I'll make it on my own. Good night, Neville…thank you for dancing with me. It was lovely."

0 0 0

He opened his eyes. He was in Malfoy Manor. What the bloody hell was he doing in Malfoy Manor? Flames were roaring outside all of the windows, and he could see indistinct shapes in them that looked like monsters. He stared. _Fiendfyre_? Even Malfoy wasn't fool enough to cast a curse like that, especially so close to his own home. But someone must have—it had surrounded the house and he could feel the heat radiating off of it. Bellatrix Lestrange pointed her wand directly at him and cackled like the hag she was.

"_Crucio_!" she shrieked wildly, and pain lanced through his body, distracting him completely from the fire outside. He screamed. It was not the first time that Bella had taken an opportunity to torture him, but she'd never seemed to _mean_ it the way she did now. The screaming sounded high-pitched and strange to his ears, but he knew it was coming from him. He could feel the noise being forced from his throat.

"NO!" shouted Ron Weasley from across the room. The torture stopped immediately; Bella was distracted. "You can have me! Keep me!" he yelled, straining to reach Severus. Although nothing seemed to hold the boy back, his struggles yielded no results. The more he attempted to move, the less progress he made. Severus stared at him, trying to understand why Weasley would want to sacrifice himself for a man he hated.

Fenrir Greyback appeared, grabbing Weasley and dragging him away. They disappeared together, fading into an indistinct corner of the room. He would have examined it more closely, but Bellatrix had turned back to him, her eyes narrowing with twisted pleasure.

"Time for a little sport, I think," she murmured wickedly. He tried to speak, but although he opened his mouth, he could say nothing. Beneath heavy eyelids, her gaze was wild and unhinged. Everything about her was strange somehow. She was exaggerated in odd ways. Her eyes, always expressive, were insane. Her hair stood out oddly, black and tangled, and her face was unnaturally bony and hollow looking.

"_Crucio_!" she hissed again, a twisted smile lighting up her face. He screamed, and kept screaming, for she refused to withdraw the curse. There was nothing left except for pain, and the bizarre, contorted face of Bellatrix Lestrange, hovering over him, laughing as he suffered the tortures of the damned.

"HERMIONE!" he heard a muffled scream which penetrated somehow through the haze of pain enveloping him. He felt sickened at the thought that the girl was there somehow as well, probably suffering something unspeakable at the hands of the Malfoys, or maybe Greyback. Bellatrix withdrew the curse, finally, and he sobbed, panting for breath. She smiled cruelly.

"Ah yes. Pleasant, is it not? Now tell me, girl—where did you get the sword?"

_Girl_? Had she just called him a girl? He heard himself stammering something about finding it, and suddenly he recognized the voice. It was not his at all, but hers—Hermione Granger's. He _was_ Hermione Granger. Horrified, he strained to look down, and caught a glimpse of his body. He was definitely Hermione Granger.

The realization surprised him so much that he woke up.

The moon had set. Everything was incredibly still around him. He looked around in confusion. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of his reverie. Carefully, he stretched his legs out, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. The night was cold and he'd drifted off sitting on a hard floor.

He stood up slowly, waiting for his muscles to warm up enough that he could walk smoothly. Leaning against the tree, he realized that his heart was racing. Her dream. He'd been inside of her dream. He'd been _her_. He knew that it was not a mere dream. She had only had one opportunity to visit Malfoy Manor, but he had seen it many times, and he knew precisely what it looked like. That was no figment of her imagination.

So Bella had tortured her, and Weasley had offered himself in her place. That explained why she'd put up with him for so many months afterwards. It took more than mere Gryffindor courage to make a sacrifice like that. Weasley was a fool, but even he knew what Bellatrix Lestrange was. The boy loved her intensely, and she must know it. Even Lily had struggled to turn her back on him completely in the face of his love for her. Love like that created obligations.

He began to climb down the tree, feeling irritated again. If Weasley loved her so much, he'd have to learn how to stop picking fights with her. Even Severus knew that it was not the way to win a lady's hand, and it seemed that he, Severus, would be the one left picking up the pieces of her damaged ego.

Because her damaged ego had somehow grafted itself onto his. He scowled. He did not remember falling asleep, which explained the dream. He'd drifted off without ensuring that his Occlumentic walls were raised. Letting himself back into the castle, he stalked down to the dungeons and to his own chambers. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. He had no interest in sharing her dreams.

Still, as he climbed into his own bed he couldn't quite shake the memory of her horrible, tortured scream, nor the grim satisfaction he felt when he remembered that Bellatrix Lestrange was blessedly, permanently dead.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Okay.. getting into more interesting stuff again here.

A few of you have mentioned that Hermione seems to be suffering from pretty bad Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. This is very much intentional, and I think they're all coping with it to some degree. Hermione's thoughts and feelings in this chapter and the story as a whole are largely drawn from my own experiences with PTSD.

I worried while writing it that people might think it was odd or unrealistic. It's as close to life as I can possibly get it, though. You think, when you hear that people with PTSD and similar disorders "feel detached," that they probably don't mind it much. The truth is, it's just about the scariest experience you can have. Try going through your whole life with lots of feelings about everything and then having them just go away for reasons you can't explain. It's like waking up to find that in the middle of the night, your arms and legs fell off, and that everyone you ever loved has also inexplicably disappeared.

Reviewers, I love you. I'm so glad you're continuing to read the story and bearing with me as I slog through all of this buildup to the ultimate Hermione-Severus emotional showdown. I promise it'll be as good as I can possibly make it, when they finally get there.


	21. Debriefing

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 21: Debriefing**

* * *

"Hermione?" 

She bolted awake and Malfoy Manor immediately resolved itself into the seventh year girls' dormitory of Gryffindor tower. The curtains on her bed had been pulled aside and Lavender Brown was watching her apprehensively.

"You were screaming," whispered Lavender. Her hand rested on her breastbone, rubbing it softly as though it ached, and Hermione remembered suddenly that Lavender, too, had been injured in the battle. She wondered what curse had hit her, and how much she'd suffered. They'd never been close, and she'd been preoccupied with other things at the time.

"Nightmare," she answered tensely. Lavender nodded.

"I thought I should wake you up. It was—it sounded horrible."

Hermione turned away, staring up into the drapery that hung over her bed, embarrassed.

"Sorry."

Lavender didn't move. "Don't be. I have them too. We all do. You can't help it any more than I can."

Hermione closed her eyes, blocking out the dim vision of her bed and the rest of the world that must inevitably lie beyond it.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" Lavender's voice was small compared to the pressing weight of despair that was beginning to creep over her again. Lavender, too, had changed. Gone was the loud, flippant girl, replaced by a quiet, white-faced woman. In spite of the brief moments in which Lavender still chased after boys or made silly jokes, Hermione realized with sudden and painful clarity that _none_ of them had emerged from the war unchanged.

"I'm just going to go back to sleep. Thanks, Lavender." She heard the faint rustle of the curtains closing, and utter darkness fell around her once again.

The dream lingered in her mind like an open wound. She shuddered as it replayed again in her thoughts. Bellatrix Lestrange's curse might not have been real this time, but the memory of it was enough to bring back the bone-deep ache that had refused to leave her for days afterwards. She wrapped her arms around a pillow, drawing it tightly to her chest and curling her body around it. The House-Elves kept the fire well stoked and the room was warm. The pile of quilts on top of her was comfortably heavy. She was exhausted; she wanted to sleep.

But sleep didn't come. She seemed to be reliving the dream over and over again, and she could not force it to stop. Ron, throwing himself against the restraining arms that held him back, begging them to torture him in her place. Greyback, his eyes lit up with horrible, animal lust. And Malfoy in the corner the whole time, watching, watching, always watching. She had felt his eyes on her even through her torture, although she couldn't see him. They saw through her, mocking her.

He had seemed unwilling to identify her, unwilling to even look her in the face, at first. But he'd watched them torture her. She shuddered with revulsion, pulling the blankets up over her head.

0 0 0

"This will be your last weekend at The Burrow until the Christmas holiday," said Professor McGonagall briskly. "Andromeda Tonks has elected to take over the care of her grandson until he reaches his majority and will be bringing him to her home later this week. As he was the primary reason that I decided to make an exception on your behalf, I have little choice but to suspend the privilege once he's gone."

Severus sat in the corner, pretending to be engrossed with a book he'd picked up at random off one of the shelves. Potter's face had fallen at the Headmistress' words, but he didn't protest, exactly.

"Will I still be able to see him once in a while, Professor?" he asked softly. Severus disapproved of bending the rules for anyone, least of all for Potter, but he realized with surprise that he felt rather sorry for the boy. To have had all of his blood family ripped away from him, then his wastrel of a godfather, then Lupin, and now Lupin's son must be difficult. He thought of his own family and he wondered what it would have been like to have grown up without them, in the care of a woman like Petunia Dursley. He had to concede that even he might have grown up dreaming grand dreams about the likes of Tobias Snape if he'd never known the man personally.

Irritated at the sudden onset of charity towards Harry Potter, he tore his gaze away. It was uncharacteristic enough that he felt reasonably justified in blaming it on the girl; yet another matter that she ought to take responsibility for and never would, interfering little thing that she was. He turned a page of the book and looked down at it, reading mechanically, although his attention was fixed on the conversation that the Headmistress and Potter were having.

"I expect that's something you'll need to work out with Andromeda, Potter," said Professor McGonagall dryly. "But I believe she'll do what she can to be accommodating."

"Thanks, Professor.

The Headmistress checked her watch. "Well, it's nearly time. Where is Miss Granger?"

"Er, she's not coming," said Ginny Weasley quickly. "Homework."

"I see." He heard the disbelief in her voice and suppressed a smirk. He didn't know if she'd seen the altercation between Weasley and Granger, but she _had_ seen her dancing with Draco, and at the very least she ought to suspect.

"Well, Potter, only one matter remains before I allow you to leave, in that case."

"Professor?"

"We'd like permission to use the house at Grimmauld Place for an Order meeting tomorrow, if that's acceptable to you."

"Oh. Yeah, that's fine. You don't even need to ask"

"Thank you, Potter." She sounded pleased. "You will travel with Arthur and Molly Weasley, I think. I will ensure that Miss Granger arrives safely. Our sources inform me that the house is being watched. We will not be using Floo powder or Apparition. I want to be sure this meeting is visible."

Severus did smirk at that. It was a good tactic, in his opinion. The time for secrecy was over. The Order had won—as far as that went—and the Death Eaters were the ones on the run. Holding a meeting at the old, previously compromised headquarters without even attempting to make a secret of it was tantamount to making a public declaration that the war was still on.

"Very well. That concludes the necessary business, I think. All ready? Good. As usual, you will find Floo powder on the table beside the fireplace. I will see you on Sunday, Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Weasley. Enjoy your weekend home."

The three Gryffindors disappeared one by one into the roaring flames. When they were finally gone, Severus closed the book and set it down, folding his hands in his lap and looking to the Headmistress.

"As I was saying," he said, "before we were so rudely interrupted."

"If you recall, Severus, I warned you when we began this conversation that they would be arriving to use the Floo at precisely seven o'clock."

He inclined his head. "You did, Minerva. However, foreknowledge of an interruption does nothing to ameliorate its unpleasantness. Are you prepared to continue, or do you need another moment to recover from the joy of being in Potter's heroic company?"

"You're losing your edge, Severus. A few months ago you would have said that with real conviction."

He allowed sarcasm to mask his discomfort at her observation. "I find that many of my previous pastimes have lost their savor of late—no doubt due to my advancing age and infirmity."

She snorted. "If you're infirm, Severus, then I am at death's door."

"Indeed," he said dryly. "It is a wonder your life has extended thus far." Her eyes widened a fraction; no doubt she was as surprised as he that he was willingly joining in the joke. "Shall we continue?"

Abruptly, the atmosphere became businesslike once again as the Headmistress nodded, picking up the quill she'd dropped when Potter and the Weasleys had entered. She rested its tip against a piece of parchment, which he knew contained the list they'd been discussing before the interruption.

"Known Death Eaters," she said rather tersely. "Who have, as yet, not been apprehended."

"Jugson," he said thoughtfully, staring into the fire, "Walpurgis, and Montgomery. They're the most significant, at the moment. And Wilkes," he added, almost as an afterthought. She set the quill down deliberately and stared at him.

"Wilkes, Severus?"

His mouth tightened up a little. "First name Damien. Born 1959."

"Severus, Damien Wilkes was killed by Aurors over ten years ago."

"Unfortunately, I must contradict you on that Minerva. It has recently come to my attention that reports of his death were greatly exaggerated." His lip twisted unpleasantly. "I confess I am rather offended that he did not see fit to inform an old _chum_ such as myself of his untimely survival until last year."

"But—"

"Apparently," he interrupted, "he received advanced warning that the Ministry was after him and administered a liberal dose of Polyjuice to an unsuspecting Muggle neighbor who he also placed under the Imperius curse. In truth, I'm rather surprised at that. I never thought Wilkes would stoop so far as to live next door to a Muggle." He crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair with a bored expression worthy of Lucius Malfoy. It had been a long time since he'd imitated Lucius to get a laugh, but he hadn't lost the knack for it. Minerva shot him a look of reprimand before allowing herself a prim, amused smile.

"My word, Severus. I never thought I would live to see the day when you were flippant about anything."

He shrugged. "I no longer have espionage to keep me from becoming bored."

"Which I'm sure is why you're volunteering for yet another dangerous job. Well," she looked down at the list with some distaste. "If that's the full list of current threats, good. I'll pass it on to Kingsley and he'll have dossiers ready by tomorrow."

"It's not the full list, but it's the most relevant one, for the moment." He stood, tilting his head smoothly in her direction. "Good day, Minerva."

"Wait."

He paused, lifting one eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I have one more matter to discuss with you."

He returned to his seat, fixing his attention on her. "By all means, continue. I have no other pulls on my time this early in the morning, although it might be enjoyable to take a little nourishment at some point before lunchtime."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Have a biscuit, Severus."

"Minerva, you have known me since my days as a student. Have you ever seen me accept a biscuit or any other form of sugary bribe from the Head of Hogwarts? I do not care for biscuits."

"Suit yourself." She shrugged. "But don't complain about being hungry."

He scowled and picked up a square of shortbread, breaking it in half and nibbling delicately at one edge, as though the very sight of it offended his sensibilities.

"Now then, Severus," she said briskly, ignoring the biscuit in his hand as completely as if it were still sitting untouched in the tin. "We need to discuss Hermione Granger."

Something inside of him turned to ice. "Hermione Granger?" He didn't dare move his eyes to her, didn't dare show a hint of surprise. He was far too good a spy to be so terribly obvious, no matter how compelling the desire. Instead, he took another bite of the biscuit, sinking his teeth into it with a deliberate slowness that could have been construed as relish, had he been another man.

"She requires an escort to the meeting. I'd like you to do it."

He slid the last of the biscuit into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, brushing a few crumbs from his knees before finally allowing himself to look at her. She seemed utterly casual, twirling her quill between her fingers and glancing idly over their list of known Death Eaters once more. The sight relaxed him, just a little.

"What," he asked coldly, "could possibly have convinced you that it would be a good idea for me to do that?"

"I will be leaving as soon as we're done here, and I will not be available to escort her myself. You are her professor and my subordinate, both at this school and in the Order." His jaw tightened angrily at that, but he said nothing. She continued: "Furthermore, in order for her to have any comprehension of what we will discuss at the meeting, someone will need to debrief her on the summer's developments. As I already said, I will not have time."

"And you think I will?" he sneered, rubbing his fingers together. They were slightly greasy, a result of the buttery residue on the biscuit.

"Oh I'm sorry, Severus," she answered with false politeness. "Did you have _plans_ today?"

He scowled. "No."

"What you are telling me, then, is that your displeasure at this assignment is an entirely knee-jerk response and not actually based in reality. I appreciate your candor. I did not invite her to begin attending meetings merely out of politeness, and I certainly do not intend to allow her to walk in without being aware of the things we will be discussing. She's a brilliant young woman, fresh off the front lines of this war. You may be shocked to discover this, but I am actually interested to see what contribution she may be able to make."

"You overestimate her, I think," he said, rather unpleasantly. "I suppose you are aware of her real reason for avoiding the Weasley house this weekend?"

"I've heard rumors—"

"An altercation with her _boyfriend._" His voice was derisive, mocking. "Your paragon of intelligence and maturity is no doubt ensconced in her dormitory, weeping over it as we speak."

One of her eyebrows lifted ever so faintly. "Is that so? And how do you know so much about it, Severus?"

_Shit_. How was he to explain that he'd been watching the girl? That he'd followed her out onto the grounds and eavesdropped on her erstwhile lover and his best friend? He might have been able to explain it to Dumbledore, to imagine some sort of reason for his interest, but not to Minerva.

"I—witnessed the exchange, during the Ball last night," he muttered. "Some rather unpleasant epithets were thrown around."

"Ah?"

He moved his gaze back to the fire. "I believe that 'whore' was the term he used." He didn't bother to hide his distaste. Let Minerva interpret it as his usual irritation with the tiresome amours of his students. Weasley was a hotheaded idiot who took after Potter's godfather more than he had any right to do given the distance of their blood relationship. It irritated him profoundly to be forced to watch it without ever being given the opportunity to vent his feelings with a few well-aimed hexes.

"In that case, I do not blame her for avoiding him. On the contrary, I think it shows maturity on her part, rather than doing otherwise. A girl with a less level head would have cursed him."

"You will forgive me if I do not agree."

"Have I another choice?"

He almost smiled, but caught himself at the last moment. "I think not."

"Nor do you, Severus. There is nobody else to do the job. You will ensure that she is entirely up-to-date on all significant points of Order business, and you will escort her to London personally. And remember—no Apparition, no Floo powder, and no Portkeys."

"I have already mentioned my approval of your plan to announce the Order's intention to continue functioning. You do not need to remind me." He stood once again, not bothering even to incline his head to her this time. "Are we finished?"

"I think that does it," she said. "Do your best to be nice to the girl, Severus. You might find that you enjoy her company."

She heard him snort contemptuously as the door closed behind him.

0 0 0

Ron was gone by the time she made it down to breakfast. She stared at a bowl of oatmeal that was swiftly becoming cold and therefore even less appetizing than it had been when she'd selected it. She'd spent hours in bed, forcing herself to keep her eyes closed, trying desperately to fall asleep again. Sleep had never come, though, and when Ginny came in and gently asked if she was joining them at The Burrow, she'd finally admitted defeat. Once Ginny was safely gone, she'd crawled out of bed and dressed herself. There was no point in pretending to sleep any longer if it was early enough that she wouldn't be the only one awake.

It was Saturday morning after a school-wide party. There were very few people up and about, even after she spent almost two hours standing in a hot shower. Irrational thoughts plagued her. She wondered if she had the strength to bash her head against the hard tiles of the bathroom wall, or into the mirror. If she could, would the blow be sufficient to kill her, or only to render her unconscious?

The oatmeal was definitely cold. She poked it with her spoon. The shape didn't change. Grimacing, she pushed it away, wondering why she'd bothered to come down and eat at all. She wasn't hungry.

With the exception of a couple first years at the end of the table, she was alone. Slowly, she lifted her teacup, bending her head a fraction to take a sip.

"Miss Granger," said Professor Snape from directly behind her. Her hand jerked involuntarily, spilling tea down the front of her robes.

"P-professor Snape," she stammered, setting her teacup down and standing up so that she could turn and address him face-to-face. His eyes moved slowly down her chest, which was soaked with tea. In any other man, it would have been lecherous. In him, it was merely insulting, and her cheeks burned as she pulled out her wand and cast a drying spell on her robes.

"If you are not too tired from your—_adventures_—last night," he sneered coldly, "I will require you to join me in my office for a few hours."

She carefully returned her wand to its comfortable hiding place up her sleeve. "For detention, sir?"

He pursed his lips, looking as though he would like nothing more than to confirm it. "No, Miss Granger, your detentions will not begin until Monday. Your presence is required elsewhere this weekend."

"If you mean The Burrow, sir, I'm not going. They've already left without me."

"I am aware. Finish your meal. I expect you in my office exactly one hour from now. Do not be late, Miss Granger. I do not enjoy being made to wait." He walked away abruptly, leaving her staring after him in bemusement. Short of detention, she couldn't imagine anything he could have to say to her outside of class time—unless he intended to berate her further for her nocturnal wanderings.

Ironic, getting in trouble with Snape for wandering around at night.

Any semblance of appetite she'd had was utterly dispelled by his approach, and she left the remainder of he tea untouched, heading for the Gryffindor tower instead. The drying charm had taken care of most of the tea soaking into her robes, but they were still uncomfortably damp and she didn't much fancy wandering around in wrinkled, tea-scented robes for the rest of the day.

She whiled away the hour, changing her robes and tidying up the area around her bed. The time passed in the same sort of numb haze that had enveloped her since the previous evening, and she found that she was not getting any more used to it. She hoped it wasn't the sort of thing that a person could get used to. It felt unnatural and wrong, to be so empty.

Promptly at nine-thirty, she knocked on his office door and was ordered to enter.

As always, he was barricaded behind his desk. This time, though, there was no stack of essays or examinations in front of him. His desk was clear, quills neatly deposited in a silver and green inkwell. In fact, he appeared to have been waiting for her.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger," he said brusquely. "There is to be a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix tomorrow, held at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. I have been instructed to make sure that you are adequately well-informed before attending."

The chairs in his office were all straight-backed and hard, as severely Victorian as his frock coat. In fact, the entire office made her think of Charles Dickens. It was dark and rather dismal, and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered every wall were stuffed alternately with books and row upon row of bottles filled with strange, exotic looking things. She avoided inspecting them too closely.

"I—what?" the import of his words gradually filtered into her brain. He made a face.

"I had _hoped_," he said, with the air of a man who knows he has wished for too much, "that you might be capable of keeping this interview from becoming _entirely_ unpleasant. You have some shred of intelligence, Miss Granger. Use it, if you please."

That should have stung her. She knew it should have. But it didn't. She felt as if she were floating above herself, watching the conversation take place from afar.

"I apologize," she said blandly. "I was just a little surprised, sir. I'm ready to listen."

He gave her an odd look, but it disappeared almost immediately and he leaned back in his chair, studying her appraisingly.

"Very well," he said, and began: "I have not been informed of the reasons why Professor McGonagall elected not to alert you to the meetings the Order held over the summer. However, you will be of no use there if you are ignorant of its recent proceedings. It is, unfortunately, my duty to enlighten you."

She blinked at him. He was repeating himself. It was so unlike Professor Snape that it jarred her momentarily out of her apathy.

"I see no reason to ask your opinion," he continued irritably, "on the outcome of the battle in June. I am aware that the commonly held view is the one espoused by _The Daily Prophet_—that with the fall of the Dark Lord, the war has ended." If he felt uncomfortable with mentioning the end of that battle to her, he didn't show it.

"It is an unfortunate truth, Miss Granger, that Wizarding society as a whole has a tendency towards ignoring the facts when they become difficult or unpleasant. To assert that the fall of the Dark Lord means the end of the war is childishly simplistic. We have _won_ the war," he said softly, "but we have not _ended_ it."

She frowned. "Sir—"

"No interruptions," he said immediately. "The outcome of the war has been determined, almost certainly. The Dark Lord's inner circle joined him in the battle where he fell, and those who were not killed were almost all captured. The remaining Death Eaters will not find another leader so charismatic or easy to follow, and they have always been prone to infighting and fracture. That does not, however, mean that they will not _attempt_ to continue the work that their master started."

In a gesture that was swiftly becoming habit, his hand stole up to his neck, rubbing it slowly. "We learn from our mistakes, Miss Granger. Nobody intends to repeat the mistakes of the first war. The Order of the Phoenix will not disband until the last Death Eater has been hunted down and…neutralized. I hope you will not be too surprised to learn that achieving such a resolution took the better part of the summer. A few amongst our number were vocally against a continuation of the war on our part."

Watching him, she thought of Mrs. Weasley and wondered where she stood on the matter. Had losing Fred and almost losing Ginny been enough for her? Had she insisted that they pull back, accept the illusion that it was all finally over? Hermione could easily imagine the red-haired matriarch of the Weasley family arguing stridently that they'd done enough, that it was time to settle down and let people get on with their lives.

"A number of known Death Eaters are still in hiding throughout Britain. Furthermore, the name of—Voldemort—" it took him visible effort to say the name "—Is known throughout the world. Although International Wizarding society has largely censured him, there are those who will always be sympathetic to views like his. Several Death Eaters have managed to flee the country, and more will follow.

"The intention of the Order, at this point, is to pursue them to the very ends of the earth." He said it with a cold, grim determination that made her shiver. Not for the first time, she was glad that Severus Snape was not her enemy. "They _must not_ be allowed to remain free any longer than is absolutely necessary.

"Fortunately, they are scattered and weak. The purpose of tomorrow's meeting is largely symbolic. Potter's house is still being watched, and Professor McGonagall has insisted that all attendees arrive in as public a manner as possible."

"To send a message," she whispered before she thought to stop herself.

He frowned. "Indeed; to send a message. The Dark Lord understood something that most of his opponents, with the possible exceptions of Albus Dumbledore and myself, did not. He understood the effectiveness of psychological warfare. Terrorism, Miss Granger, is unpleasant, but it is effective. It sends a message. We will not resort to terrorism, but there are other ways to intimidate and show strength. This is one of them."

"A few assignments have been made. Order members who are not tied down by other obligations have been on the hunt since early August. A finalized list of the most-wanted Death Eaters will be presented tomorrow."

He stopped speaking. Initially, she thought it was merely a rhetorical pause, but he kept silent, watching her, apparently waiting for a reaction. He'd ended so abruptly that it took her several moments to understand that he was done.

"What am I supposed to do about it?" she asked, saying the first thing that came to her mind.

He smirked unpleasantly. "Miss Granger, if I knew that, I would not have expended so much energy in telling the Headmistress that it was pointless to inform you of all this."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"Because I am a soldier, and this is a war, and soldiers follow the orders they are given no matter how distasteful." She caught a flash of pain on his face, so subtle that she was shocked she'd even noticed it. "Surely you have understood at least _that_ much by now."

She shrugged, biting her lower lip. "What if I don't want to attend?"

His eyes narrowed. "I do not believe that you are being given a choice."

"I'm tired of fighting. I want to rest."

"Oh yes," he sneered. "You've been through so much hardship. I cannot imagine how trying the last year has been." He laid a subtle emphasis on the word 'year,' and she heard the clear implications behind it. How dare she complain about a mere year of fighting to a man that had sacrificed his entire life for the cause since before she was born?

"I'm tired," she repeated softly, and she felt it. It was the first thing she'd felt with any real conviction in at least twelve hours, and it was almost as overwhelming as feeling nothing.

0 0 0

She was not looking at him. In fact, she didn't seem to be looking at anything. He watched her carefully.

"I do not see," he said smoothly, "why your energy level has any bearing on this discussion. We are not discussing a trip to the seashore. We are discussing a _war_. You have enemies, Miss Granger, and they do not care whether you are tired or not, except insofar as it aids their attempts to end your life."

She shrugged again, an almost rebellious jerk of her shoulders that irritated him profoundly. He wanted to grab her, to shake her and make her understand the danger she was still in, and she merely sat there looking insolent and disinterested.

"You are being given a great honor," he said angrily. "At least pretend to be sensible of it, girl. You are of age, but you are still a student. In spite of this, you are being invited to participate in something of great importance with wizards whose training in these matters far exceeds your own."

"I don't want it." Her voice was even, her face completely impassive. She never looked at him, but she never looked at anything else, either. She merely sat.

He kept watching her, carefully. Finally, he began to realize what was wrong with her, what he'd first noticed the night before and brushed away. She was not someone who hid her emotions. It was, in actual point of fact, one of her most annoying features. But there was no emotion about her now. The brilliant mind was there, mostly, but the heart had fled.

Caught up in his thoughts, he didn't respond to her, and they sat in silence for several minutes. She never moved, nor did he. His discovery alarmed him; it reminded him of the year that Lily had died. He'd sworn his oath of allegiance to Dumbledore in the blind trust that the man could do something to save her, and then Pettigrew the cringing bastard had betrayed them.

Those were his darkest days. Voldemort was gone, Lily was gone, and the war was over. He owed his freedom and his life to Albus Dumbledore. But he didn't care. They were nothing to him. In spite of the years of suffering he'd endured at the hands of his father, his fellow Slytherins and even Lily, it was only then that he understood what it meant to come to the end of himself and find that he had nothing left.

He'd tried to kill himself. Foolishly, he hadn't used a potion but a rope. A House-Elf coming in to do the dusting had seen him and fetched Dumbledore, who rushed to the 'rescue' and cut him down. The Headmaster never asked why, and Severus never tried to explain. He wouldn't know how to begin. There were no words for the emptiness that ate away at him.

No words for the emptiness that stared out of her eyes.

He could bear the silence no longer. "The Headmistress has directed that you will accompany me to Grimmauld Place. I planned to leave after dinner this evening and spend the night in London. If this is amenable to you, I would prefer not to change those plans."

"I don't _want_ to."

"You have no choice, Miss Granger." He was firm, but this time there was no rancor in his voice. She looked at him dully. He did not have the heart to be cruel to her now. "If, on consideration, you continue to insist that you will not be involved, you can discuss it with the Headmistress after the meeting."

She turned her head away. He hesitated a moment before speaking again:

"I wish to ask you something, Miss Granger."

Silence. He waited, but she did not respond. With a mental shrug, he continued:

"I wish to know how you came to be in that tree last night."

"How did _you_ come to be?"

"Miss Granger, we are not in a classroom but I am your teacher and you will address me with the appropriate level of respect. I was looking for _you_, girl. Have you not been listening to me? It is unsafe for you to be alone, and although I doubt that a Death Eater would attempt to attack you on the grounds of Hogwarts, some of them are profoundly dimwitted. It is not outside the realm of possibility." He paused and would have stopped, but for some horrible instinct that forced him to say more. "I was...concerned."

That managed to prompt a mild response, an emotion that he couldn't quite identify. "I was hiding from Harry and Ron."

"I was, in fact, aware of that much. My inquiry is more specific than that." Even as he asked, he was shocked with himself. It was not in his nature to simply charge ahead and ask blunt questions like this. He was a master at manipulating people, at stealing knowledge from them without their knowledge, and here he was, clumsily pushing the matter right into her face.

"I…climbed up the branches, and then I turned around and it was just there. I needed to hide, so I went through." At least the Gryffindor responded to Gryffindor behavior. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he'd tried the same approach with a member of his own House.

"You will not return there." It wasn't a question. She looked at him in a way that was almost curious. His heart ached for her—sad, broken little thing that she was.

_For Merlin's sake, Severus Snape, get a _grip_ on yourself!_ screamed his mind. Suddenly he seemed to settle back into himself, and he was nearly overwhelmed with horror at the thoughts he'd just been entertaining.

"Get out, Miss Granger," he snapped. "We leave for London directly after dinner."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Oh reviewers, I can never adequately express my appreciation to you all. Many of you have asked me how I can keep up the pace at which I'm writing. You are the answer to your own question, dear readers. Knowing you're out there and waiting to find out what happens next is the thing that keeps me from getting distracted wandering away from this story. 

In fact, I almost went to bed without finishing this chapter..but then I thought of you, and decided to stick with it and stay up until it was done.

Not much to say about this chapter, except that I hope you're starting to see the ways in which Hermione is rubbing off on Severus as well as the ways that he's rubbed off on her. It's certainly not intended to be a one-sided exchange.

Also.. this chapter engages in a few lines of blatant theft from a film in which Alan Rickman features rather prominently. I enjoy throwing random allusions and references into my writing anyway, and since this entire fic was inspired by an Alan Rickman movie (not the one I reference here), I decided to leave it in. Points to anyone who identifies it.


	22. On the Road

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 22: On the Road**

* * *

Shortly after six o'clock in the evening, a tall, cloaked wizard waited in the Entrance Hall of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His arms were crossed, and he surveyed the room with a look of decided annoyance. The few students who occasionally crossed the Hall cast furtive, wary glances at him as they passed, carefully avoiding him. 

At six-thirty he was joined by a young woman, also cloaked. She carried a heavy knapsack that appeared to be laden mostly with books.

"Miss Granger," said the wizard softly. "So glad you found the time to join me."

"Professor Snape," she answered rather stiffly. "You didn't specify a time to meet you. All you said was 'after dinner,' sir."

He scowled. "Be that as it may, Miss Granger, I do not appreciate you lingering so unnecessarily long over your meal after I informed you that I desired to leave immediately after eating dinner. You are being given a privilege, however little you appreciate it." Without inviting her to follow, he opened the large doors that led to the outside and strode through them. Hoisting her knapsack a little higher up her shoulder, she hurried after him.

They walked across the grounds in silence. A chilly mist was rising from the ground and it swirled around them. A few times, the witch looked as though she might speak, but she kept her mouth closed. The wizard took no notice of this, keeping his eyes fixed on the path ahead. He had his wand out and his attitude bespoke a man who fully believed that he might be attacked at any moment.

At length they passed through a large gate, and he stopped walking so abruptly that she nearly bumped into him.

"Take my arm, Miss Granger."

"Sir?"

A hint of impatience crept into his voice. "Side-Along Apparition, girl."

"I already know how to Apparate." She frowned. "And I thought you said we weren't supposed to use Apparition?"

Irritably, he seized her arm and placed it within his own, pinning it to his side. "We are not supposed to use Apparition to get to _London_, Miss Granger. Surely you did not think we would be walking from Scotland. Do not let go of me. Whether or not you know how to Apparate, you will get splinched if you attempt to do so on your own, going to a location that is utterly unfamiliar to you. I have no interest in returning here in order to fetch your arms after you leave them behind."

In a swirl of robes, he turned gracefully in place, and they both Disapparated with a loud, resounding _crack_, leaving only eddies of fog in their wake.

0 0 0

They Apparated onto a hill overlooking Spinner's End. A chilly drizzle was falling and the tiny droplets of rain immediately clung to his hair and his cloak. He would be dripping within moments, he knew. He glanced down at the girl to assure himself that she hadn't been splinched during Apparition after all. She was staring down the street, taking in the gray, run-down houses with a look in her eyes that he couldn't interpret.

He realized that he was still clasping her arm in his and he immediately let go, shaking himself free of it with an air of disgust.

"Where are we, Professor?"

He looked around again, his nose wrinkling slightly with displeasure. "South of Manchester."

"Oh. Why, sir?"

"You shall see in due time, Miss Granger. Come." He started down towards the street, picking his way over the damp ground. The scrabble of her feet on loose stones behind him indicated that she was following. She slipped on a patch of mud just before they reached the street, falling and landing with a grunt. He turned then.

"I would appreciate it if you kept clean," he said blandly, surveying the large streak of mud on her robes. She glared back, picking herself up. With a surreptitious glance to ensure that nobody was about, she pulled out her wand and vanished the mud. He smirked and resumed walking. She was livelier than she had been in the morning, although there were dark circles under her eyes that indicated she hadn't been sleeping well. Let her be angry with him. It was better than being unresponsive.

They crossed the street and Severus produced a Muggle house key from his pocket as he walked, toying with it idly. She caught up with him as he slowed down in front of one of the houses. It was darker than the rest. An aura of gloom seemed to hang around the house, as it always did. One of these days he'd really need to sell it and find someplace better to spend his summers... someplace that wasn't haunted by misery.

Unlocking the door, he gave it a hard push. It creaked open and he stepped through into the gray living room. Granger followed, stopping just past the door and looking around curiously. Her hair seemed to have exploded; it was still pulled back, but a frizzy halo had erupted all around her head and water was dripping from it, as well as from her robes.

"Welcome," he said sardonically, "to my humble abode, Miss Granger."

She immediately looked uncomfortable and he smiled unpleasantly, recalling the first time he'd been invited to a Professor's home. It had come as a shock to know that most of the intimidating, cloaked gods of Hogwarts spent their summers in unremarkable little houses and cottages.

"My father," he said, in order to break the silence, "was a Muggle. I inherited this house upon his death, and it suits my purposes adequately. If you proceed to the kitchen, you should find a space that is private enough to suit your needs."

She stared. "Sir?"

"Muggle clothes, Miss Granger. I assume you brought some? Now is the time to don them. I expect you to be ready to leave by the time I return. And don't touch anything.

He opened the door to the stairs and went up, leaving her still standing in the living room behind him. Closing his bedroom door behind him, he pulled off his robes, casting a drying charm on them and folding them meticulously. Taking a pair of blue jeans from a battered dresser, he put them on quickly, followed by a nondescript black T-shirt and a black leather jacket. Tugging uncomfortably at the T-shirt, he glanced in the mirror, trying to ignore the huge, scarlet blemishes on his neck.

"Lost some weight, haven't you dear?" chirped the mirror pleasantly. He scowled at it. It had belonged to his mother, and he'd never got rid of it, although he often resolved to do so.

"I have," he said stiffly, squinting at his wet, lank hair, which was plastered to either side of his face and wondering how long he would have to let it grow before it hid the scar.

"I always think you look better in robes, personally," commented the mirror.

"As do I," he agreed dryly. "But choice in matters of dress is a luxury one cannot always afford." Straightening his hair with his fingers, he tucked his folded robes into a knapsack of his own, picked up his boots, and returned downstairs.

0 0 0

She watched Professor Snape's back disappear up the stairs. Somehow it had never occurred to her to picture him in a house such as this one, to say nothing of the fact that he'd just left in order to go put on Muggle clothes. She set her knapsack down, opening it up and digging through it until she found the Muggle things she'd brought. She liked to make a point of wearing Wizarding robes at school, but she always changed when she went home or to Grimmald Place.

And it was a good thing that she did, too. The Professor hadn't warned her that she'd need to change into Muggle things. Although, she conceded as she walked into the dismal kitchen, he was observant enough to have noticed that she was always in what she still thought of as 'regular' clothes while at Grimmauld Place. Perhaps he'd merely made the correct assumption that her habits hadn't changed that significantly. She looked around. The kitchen was small and dimly-lit. A single, grimy window looked out over a sad strip of muddy grass, and she could just catch a glimpse of a narrow alley beyond. There was a scuffling noise through the ceiling above her and she remembered that she was supposed to be changing.

A small alcove lined with empty shelves served as a pantry. This, apparently, was what he had meant by a space private enough to suit her needs. With a grimace she backed into the shelves, bumping into a solitary, faded box of crackers as she did so, and draped her outer cloak around herself. As soon as she was satisfied that she would remain covered, she wriggled out of her things, hastily pulling on a pair of jeans. There was no way to get her jumper over her head without removing the cloak, however. Reluctantly she turned her back to the door, deciding that she'd rather have her back to the unknown than risk Professor Snape happening upon her and getting a full-frontal view of her unclothed chest.

However, Professor Snape did not come in, and once she was dressed again she folded up her damp things and carried them back into the living room, belatedly casting a drying charm on them lest they damage her books. Just as she finished, she heard his tread on the stairs and glanced up.

For one wild moment, she thought that a stranger had somehow got into the house while she was in the kitchen. In Muggle clothing, he was almost unrecognizable, until she got to the hair and the nose, which were distinctive enough in themselves to be immediately familiar. He sat down with a grunt, setting down a pair of dragon hide boots that she supposed must be the ones he always wore. With no more than a glance to ascertain that she'd obeyed his directions and changed her things, he pulled his boots on one by one, tying them carefully and double-knotting the laces. She watched in silence, feeling dumbstruck. Stranger even than the idea that Professor Snape was from Manchester, stranger than seeing him in Muggle clothes, or publicly traveling through Britain in his company--somehow the strangest thing about it all was seeing him barefoot, pulling thick green socks up over his white feet and lacing them into the heavy boots

"Professor Snape?" He glanced up at her, quirking one eyebrow. "How are we getting to London from here, sir?"

He smiled thinly. "In my car, Miss Granger."

She stared. She couldn't help it. Strange enough seeing him with no shoes on. But--a car?

He glanced at an ancient clock that stood ticking noisily on a bookshelf and stood up, lifting both his knapsack and hers and slinging both onto his shoulder together. Without the high collar of his robes to disguise it, the snakebite scar was visible when he turned, standing out bright and livid on his white skin. It was really a series of scars, a line of small, round dots punctuated by two much larger ones. Those two were the ugliest, and had taken the longest time to heal.

"We have several hours of traveling before us. I am sure you do not wish to linger here any more than I do," he said, looking around again. His expression reminded her of Harry's at the end of the school year, when he contemplated returning to stay with his family for the summer. She wondered fleetingly if Professor Snape's childhood had been as terrible as Harry's. The thought pulled her out of her own self-absorption for a moment, overwhelming it instead with an odd sense of pity. What had happened to him, to turn him into the man he was?

He produced a set of keys from somewhere and opened the door, indicating with a gallant gesture that she ought to precede him. She waited while he locked the door behind them, listening to the indistinct murmur of his voice as he reactivated wards that she hadn't noticed him taking down earlier. Without a word in her direction, he led her to the alley beside the house, where a small car sat, as battered and worn as everything else on the street. She looked at it dubiously.

"I assure you, Miss Granger, the car runs, and I drive it adequately." She blushed and he opened the door and once again gesturing for her to enter before him. "My father insisted I learn to drive. I would like to say it was out of some hope that he could persuade me to embrace my Muggle heritage, but it had much more to do with keeping up appearances with his mates."

The car rocked a little under his weight as he folded himself into it, looking slightly cramped but not particularly uncomfortable with the idea of driving the thing to London. "I have to admit," he confessed wryly as he adjusted the rearview mirror, "it is a useful skill. I imagine I am the only Death Eater capable of operating a Muggle vehicle, and I find that to be an advantage."

The engine started up immediately and he backed out of the alley, pulling into the cobblestoned street and navigating them through a complex web of roads and tiny lanes. Hermione stared out the window into the quickly gathering darkness, attempting to comprehend the fact that she was riding in a car driven by Professor Snape. And he was wearing _jeans_.

"Sir," she said suddenly, "I've never seen you in Muggle clothes before. Why are you wearing them now?"

He made an impatient noise, glancing into a mirror and twisting the wheel to make a right turn. "You have never seen me in Muggle clothes before for the very simple and obvious reason that you have only been present for a handful of these meetings in the past, and I happened to travel there by means of Apparition on those occasions. I rarely wear Muggle clothing during the school year in any event. However, the restrictions placed on travel this time require appropriate dress."

"Oh." She looked out the window, watching lights move past in the distance. It was like being in a dream. Like being in a very surreal but very coherent dream.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Granger, we will be sharing this vehicle for nearly three more hours. It may surprise you to hear this, but I would prefer _not_ to spend those hours in uncomfortable silence. A little conversation to make the time pass would not be amiss."

She turned to look at him. His eyes were fixed on the road, and his hair obstructed most of his face from her view, but his body was as tense as though he were about to go into battle. She wondered if he was tense about being in the car with her, or if he was always that tense and she had merely missed it under the heavy coverings of his robes.

"I don't have anything to talk about," she muttered. He risked tearing his eyes away from the road long enough to glance at her.

0 0 0

"I do not know what your Head of House has led you to expect from your Professors, Miss Granger, but I am not interested in your self-pity. Nor do I intend to indulge your sulking. I am not fishing for some sort of _personal_ discussion," he uttered the words with the greatest distaste. "Describe to me, _in detail_, the necessary steps involved in brewing the Wolfsbane potion, beginning with the circumstances under which all ingredients must be harvested and prepared."

He watched the road, but he could see her restless movement from the corner of his eye. She was staring sullenly out the window. It was a very advanced potion, well beyond NEWT level, in fact, but he was reasonably certain that she'd studied it. For a moment he thought she would ignore the question, but then she began, in a small, dull voice:

"To ensure greatest effectiveness, all ingredients should be harvested on the night of the new moon. By no means should one ever use ingredients harvested during the full moon, as they will have no magical efficacy against the werewolf curse..."

He listened as she slowly, painstakingly outlined the steps and procedures for making the potion. It took her nearly forty-five minutes to complete the recitation. Although he never looked at her, he could feel her relax as she made her way through each complicated stage of the potion, describing it in almost loving detail. He didn't speak--she needed no correction--but he listened carefully, and it did make the time pass. He did not drive often enough to find it tedious, but long trips were monotonous when they were spent in silence.

"...at which point the potion is technically complete, although it ought to rest for twelve hours before it's taken," she finally concluded, sounding pleased with herself.

"I wonder, Miss Granger, how long does it take you to memorize the textbook word-for-word?" he sneered. It was amazing, really. She was the first student he ever remembered having who might be competent at actually brewing anything as complicated as Wolfsbane. Not that he'd tell her that.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she said stiffly.

"Indeed?" he murmured with an air of polite disbelief. She pressed her forehead against the windowpane, sighing quietly.

"It doesn't really matter, does it, Professor?" He listened to the rhythmic creak of of the wipers for a few moments, considering his answer. He'd thought several times about simply casting an _Impervius_ charm on the windshield, but he imagined it might draw unwanted attention to drive through the rain with no apparent means of maintaining visibility.

"It does not matter, Miss Granger," he finally conceded. She didn't answer him. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the swish of the windshield wipers and the faint drum of rain as it hit the car. After ten minutes, he allowed himself to look at her.

Her forehead was still pressed to the window, and her shoulders were shaking violently, although she made no noise. He realized with a start that she was crying. Again. "Miss Granger," he said carefully, hating himself for making the girl cry. "I...apologize. I was harsh with you, I--"

"It's n-nothing," she sniffled. "J-just tired."

"Nevertheless," he muttered uncomfortably. "I am your teacher. I am responsible for you."

"I just wish I didn't have to go," she said, her voice soft and pathetic. It was a childish sentiment, but he felt no scorn for it. He didn't much want to go either, and she was still so young. He wished desperately that he could do something. For the umpteenth time since he'd first assumed the office of Headmaster, he registered intense sympathy with Dumbledore's habit of distributing candy. Something about weeping students produced in him an urgent desire to stuff something sweet in their mouths and hope that they'd stop.

"If I had the choice to leave you behind, I would have," he said quietly. A convulsive sob escaped her and he winced. Poor phrasing, that. One of these days he'd have to learn a little tact, if he planned to have many more conversations with her. "I don't mean--that is to say, it was not my intention to be unkind. I have no taste for dragging children into a war that ought to be waged by adults." She appeared to be gagging on her own tears. Merlin's accursed white beard.

"I'm not a ch-child," she choked. He removed one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed the bridge of his nose. They ought to have left earlier, he decided. Driving in the rain was bad enough, but driving in the dark made his head ache.

"It was not an insult," he answered, as kindly as he could. "There is nothing wrong with being young, Miss Granger. It is a condition that will pass soon enough on its own in any case." He leaned over and opened the glove compartment with one hand, producing a tidily folded handkerchief and offering it to her. She accepted it and brought it to her face, snuffling miserably.

"I don't want to fight anymore."

Softly, he tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, wondering how he'd ended up having this conversation with this girl, of all conversations and all girls. "I doubt that Professor McGonagall will ask you to fight," he said finally. "But we must ensure your protection, and I do believe that she is interested in your opinion."

"My opinion?" Her voice was shrill, derisive. He furrowed his brow, wishing that he could look at her.

"So she informs me."

"Much good may it do her." The dull, despairing note was creeping back into her voice, and that made him panic far more than the tears had. He should never have agreed to this. He'd spent his entire teaching career avoiding being thrown into personal encounters with students, and somehow now he had ended up on a three-hour car trip with Hermione bloody Granger, and she was _crying_.

"Miss Granger," he muttered, trying not to sound completely impatient. "Would you be so kind as to explain to me what you are blubbering about?"

Another loud sniff, and a surreptitious swipe at her nose with the handkerchief. "I don't want to bore you."

He snorted. "Silence would be a bore. This is merely the fulfillment of my job description. I was ordered to be nice to you, and nice I will endeavor to be."

"Oh. I see." Now she sounded offended. Offended was definitely an improvement over apathetic, at any rate.

"I have been charged with your safekeeping during this year. As a result, I have a legitimate reason to make inquiries as to the source of your distress." _And,_ he added privately, _I just want to know_. Merlin help him, but he _did_ want to know. He was nearly consumed with curiosity, in fact, and if giving in to that curiosity would keep her from crying, then so be it. He would have to risk his soul, because he didn't think he could stand much more in the way of tears.

She lifted her feet to the edge of the car seat and wrapped her arms around her knees, folding in on herself. "I don't know what's wrong," she said, with a jerky shrug. "I had a row with Ron, I suppose that's part of it. I'm worried about Gin--er, Ginny Weasley. And after the battle--well, everything's changed since then, hasn't it?"

He counted to ten, his heart racing with fear as he wondered what she might have innately picked up on. "In what way, Miss Granger?" He prayed it sounded merely like polite, false curiosity.

"I don't know. Everything is different and I don't understand why."

"You have been through an ordeal." _Pretend she's a Slytherin,_ he told himself desperately. _Just another student in need of council. Nothing special about her. Nothing threatening or dangerous. What would you say to a Slytherin?_ "It is natural to feel the way that you do." She stayed silent. Hazarding yet another glance at her, he saw that she was chewing on her lip so continuously that he was surprised there wasn't blood running down her chin. And this was the girl with the strength of will to reach beyond the grave and grab hold of his soul?

When she stayed resolutely silent, he longed to do the same. But he couldn't. He could feel her despair; it radiated from her like heat from a fire, making him think desperate, anxious things. He had to keep talking, even if it was only to keep himself distracted from the force of her misery.

0 0 0

She interlaced her fingers, locking her arms together like a belt around her knees. Professor Snape was baffling her, being almost friendly, almost solicitous of her feelings. But she had nothing to say to him. There was nothing to say about any of it. She didn't understand her own feelings (or, more recently, lack thereof) and she certainly didn't expect him to do so. So she held her peace, digging her teeth into her lip in an effort to keep herself from crying any more.

"Potions," he said suddenly, "made with blood are almost always classified as Dark potions, regardless of whether or not they actually involve Dark magic. This is because general opinion holds that in order to obtain blood, it is necessary to perform an act of violence upon another. However, this is not always the case. In a truly Dark potion, the blood _must_ be taken by force, from an unwilling donor. Roughly half of blood potions, and I refer to potions involving human blood, are not evil by nature. Indeed, many of them are at their most efficacious if the blood is given willingly."

She didn't move. He was using his lecture voice, which only added to the surreal quality of the night. Professor Snape, previously barefoot, wearing Muggle clothes, driving a car, and lecturing on blood potions--if she looked in the dash and found naked photos of Albus Dumbledore, she could hardly be more disoriented.

"There are several classes into which blood may be divided for the purposes of potion making. Venous and arterial blood removed directly from the source make up the first class. To obtain it, an incision is made directly into a vein or artery and blood with a specific spell, and the blood is siphoned out into a sterile vial or other container. This is subdivided into consensual and non-consensual donation."

A car passed them with a roar and a noise of tires pushing through water. It distracted her momentarily, which came as a surprise; she didn't realize she'd been paying attention to the lecture.

"The second class is blood removed from a wound. This is blood obtained from a fresh, open wound. In some cases, it must be drawn by a specific weapon. In others, the weapon does not matter as long as the causes of the injury are non-magical. In others, the wound must have been caused by a wand. Third," he hesitated just long enough to pique her interest a little more, "is menstrual and virgin's blood. Although they are vastly different in their uses, they are classed together in the most general sense due to their...common source." If she'd been less exhausted, she would have smiled at his delicacy.

His voice, low and sonorous, resonated in her ears. Warm air was blowing from the vents in the dash, and the wipers were insinuating their gentle rhythm into her brain. She closed her eyes, listening. In spite of the macabre subject matter, it was comforting to hear him lecture as though they were back in their classroom. His voice was calm and steady and matter-of-fact, something that she could cling to amongst the turmoil that raged in her mind. The interior of the car was very dark by now and the sound of the rain was making her sleepy, and she could almost let herself relax, curled up there inside the warm little car as they made their way to London to discuss their opinions on how to save the world.

0 0 0

"The fourth class of blood is almost exclusively used in Dark potions--I refer to blood removed from corpses. It is subdivided based on the age of the corpse and the deterioration of the blood. It is theoretically possible that there is a potion using this class of blood that does not involve Dark magic, but I have never encountered one in my own research."

Pausing for breath, he registered a new sound: the deep, even breathing of sleep. As a street lamp passed over their heads, he took advantage of the light momentarily flooding the car to look at her face. She was, indeed, fast asleep, still curled into an impossibly tiny little ball of woman in the passenger seat of his car. Her head nodded slightly with each full rotation of the tires. He almost smiled. How strange it was, for this to be happening. For a few blessed minutes, he might be able to pretend that he was a normal man, leading a normal life.

Granted, he only assumed that normal men periodically discovered young women sleeping in their cars on unexpected trips to London.

He wanted to look at her again, but he didn't. Instead, he thought about her. The sensation of her distress had slowly disappeared as he talked, either because he'd successfully erected a shield against it, or because she had calmed down. He wasn't really sure which, although it was reassuring that she was asleep. She didn't seem to be dreaming, which he decided was also a good thing. He was wary of Hermione Granger's dreams.

It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to tell her what had transpired between them. It didn't seem exactly sporting to know something so vital about her and to withhold it when it was clear to anyone with half a brain that she was in deep distress. He would have to discuss it with Dumbledore, he decided. He didn't want to agitate the girl any more. She required careful handling, since there was no way to get around their connection. Whatever he said or did to her, he was going to have to live with indefinitely. It certainly created a new motivation to practice restraint.

Perhaps he could confide in Professor McGonagall. Until becoming Headmistress, she'd been the girl's Head of House. It certainly wouldn't do to ask Trelawney, who had taken over McGonagall's post by virtue of being the only other Gryffindor professor at the school. But Minerva knew the girl, and knew him. Since he'd first joined the staff, she'd done what she could to befriend him, and if they weren't exactly close, they were at least fond of each other. It might be a relief to share the burden of knowledge with her, and she could tell him what to do about Granger.

If she didn't kill him, first.

They were getting close to their destination. It was not yet really late; he wasn't tired in the slightest. But he would be glad to stop driving nonetheless. His legs were beginning to cramp from being tucked into the too-small space that the car afforded. The road was beginning to fill up with traffic, and he concentrated on driving, so much so that for a while he was able to forget the girl who slept so close to him, looking peaceful for the first time all year.

0 0 0

"Miss Granger." A gust of cold air hit her face and she woke up quite suddenly, feeling very disoriented. Her eyes were scratchy, and her mind muzzy with sleep, and there was a strangely familiar voice saying her name.

"We're here," the voice murmured, and slowly her mind found a name for the voice, and she turned to look and indeed, there was Professor Snape, standing outside of her opened door and leaning over her gently. "And you must wake up. It would not do for me to carry you inside. The Death Eaters watching the house would surely misinterpret the gesture and it would put you at even greater risk."

She straightened up, twisting a little and wincing as several joints in her spine cracked loudly. Professor Snape stepped back, holding out his hand to her. She took it, and he helped her out of the car.

The air outside was chilly, and it made her feel instantly alert, although some part of her mind was still incredibly sleepy. Grimmauld Place was empty, except for a few buzzing street lights and a stray cat that wandered down the middle of the road, tail erect. Professor Snape closed the car door behind her and locked it. He was, once again, carrying both their bags over one shouder, and he hitched them up higher as he walked up the steps to the door.

Arthur Weasley opened it, looking old and tired.

"Evening Severus, Hermione," he said wearily, whispering to keep from waking Mrs. Black's portrait. "Come on in. No, nobody else is here yet. Minerva ought to arrive in a few hours, and the rest will begin showing up tomorrow morning. I came ahead--walked from the office, you know. Harry says you're to have your regular room, Hermione. Severus, take your pick."

Once they reached the kitchen, Professor Snape set the bags down on the table. Hermione merely stood and looked around, trying to shake the feeling that she was still sleeping.

"Are either of you hungry? Harry sent Kreacher up tonight to make sure there was food for anyone who arrived early."

"I think not," murmured Professor Snape. "Miss Granger, I suggest that you retire, as you are clearly in need of some rest, and I have matters to discuss with Arthur Weasley that do not concern you tonight."

She nodded dumbly, picking up her bag--when had it gotten so very heavy? And what had possessed her to pack so many books for a single overnight trip?--and trudging towards the stairs. Her bedroom was exactly as she'd left it, neat and tidy, holding the few things she'd left behind. It smelled homelike and familiar, and she crawled into the massive bed with an odd sense of relief.

Closing her eyes, she let drowsiness overtake her again, so tired that she forgot to be afraid that she might dream.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Infinite thanks to JunoMagic, for allowing me to bounce ideas off of her for this chapter. I was really having trouble getting started and she helped me break right through it. 

Next in line, of course, are thanks to the lovely reviewers and readers, who make me feel very special and make it worth my while to stay up till all hours of the night combating writer's block. I hope you're pleased with my offering. :)

Snape's Muggle clothes are shamelessly inspired by (read: stolen from) the clothes worn by Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus in The Boondock Saints. Nothing fancy, nothing too angsty, just nondescript and serviceable. I've noticed most people tend to make Snape's Muggle clothes all black, in order to match his robes, but I don't think he'd do that. It stands out. I think he'd make an effort to blend in and, being half-blood, he'd know how.


	23. Grimmauld Place, Again

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.**  
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**Chapter 23 - Grimmauld Place, Again  
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* * *

She passed a night blessedly free of horrible memories. It was not, however, entirely free of nightmares, and she woke up with images of graveyards and cruel, harsh voices lingering at the edge of her consciousness. They were unfamiliar to her, and she brushed them aside as products of her imagination. Even when she wasn't tormented with her own experiences, apparently, her mind couldn't let go of the evil that still hovered just beyond the boundaries of her little world. 

Professor Snape's oblique references to the danger she was in were mildly disturbing. Although she'd recognized the danger to some degree (it was, after all, the reason she hadn't yet brought her parents back from Australia), she felt disconnected from it personally. She made her bed and padded down the hallway to the shower, washing her hair distractedly. The drive to London had been so strange. She didn't know what she expected, but it certainly wasn't _that_. He wasn't conversational, exactly, but he was hardly taciturn, either.

She pulled on the same blue jeans she'd worn the night before. They were old and worn, and very comfortable. No matter how long she spent in the Wizarding world, putting her Muggle clothes back on always gave her a pleasant sense of normalcy and homecoming. Although Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was an unmistakably magical residence, she felt odd wearing robes there. Harry's Muggle upbringing was still so much a part of him, and it had begun to imprint itself on the house as he made himself more at home there. Jeans seemed more fitting than robes, somehow, even if only as a subtle snub to the redoubtable Mrs. Black.

Returning to her bedroom, she opened the closet to pick a clean jumper from the few she hadn't brought to school. There, on the floor, stood the small cauldron that held their potion. It was under a stasis spell, and she'd found a charm to keep anything from falling into it and contaminating it. She'd been about to cast it herself, but Ron had come up behind her and she'd let him do it at the last minute.

She looked at it thoughtfully, watching the slight shimmer in the air where the magical forcefield sat, protecting their work. He really _was_ good at Charms. Better than she'd expect. But then, they had all changed so much, she supposed she shouldn't be surprised.

Beside the cauldron sat the tiny vial of blood that they'd obtained from Petunia Dursley. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the vial of Snape's blood, turning it in her hand thoughtfully. Blood... she stared at it, feeling as though she was missing something, some connection she should have noticed.

Blood potions. She'd fallen asleep last night listening to Professor Snape lecturing her about sodding _blood potions_ and she hadn't even thought about the implications of it! Panic filled her chest in an icy flood, adrenaline breaking effortlessly through all of her apathy and leaving her with shaking hands and a pale face. Did he know? How could he possibly know? Blood magic didn't even show up on their syllabus until nearly the very end of the year, and yet he'd brought it up spontaneously. Had he seen, when Neville stole his blood? It was nearly impossible for him to have happened upon the subject through mere coincidence.

She set the second vial beside the first and slammed the closet door closed, locking it with a wave of her wand. It was still early--Harry and Ron and Ginny probably hadn't arrived. She needed to talk to them. And Neville. She needed the details, and somehow, somehow, she needed to find out if he _knew_.

Hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen, her mind racing, she wondered frantically how to get in touch with Neville. There wasn't a way to Floo students at school. She wondered if she still had her enchanted Galleon. Surely he carried his. Where would it be, if she had it? Maybe Harry had his somewhere in his bedroom--

She ran into the kitchen and stopped short. Neville was seated at the kitchen table, next to Professor Snape, who was once again attired in his robes and looking so different that she almost wondered if she'd imagined his Muggle clothes.

"N-Neville?" she stammered. "What are you doing here?"

He beamed at her over a cup of tea. "Professor McGonagall brought me."

Professor Snape glowered into his own teacup, looking annoyed. He did not appear to have slept well, and he didn't seem to have touched the plate of eggs that Kreacher had set before him, either.

She looked questioningly from the Professor to Neville. "Oh... when?"

"She took me to St. Mungo's yesterday morning to visit my... my mum and dad," he said, looking over at Professor Snape and going slightly pink. "The Healers think that... well, it isn't much yet, but there have been some developments in Muggle medicine for these sorts of problems, I guess, and this one new man, Healer Pye, suggested trying some of them. It's a start, anyway. Gran couldn't come and fetch me, so Professor McGonagall agreed to be my escort and then she invited me to come along here. Said it was about time I joined the Order officially, like my dad."

He said it with no small amount of pride, and as she sat down to her own breakfast, she wondered how much it meant to him to be invited to take his father's place, after years of inadequacy.

"When's Harry getting here?" he asked as she bit into her toast. As if on cue, the front door opened and Harry and Ron's laughing voices echoed down the hallway.

"FILTH! PUTRESCENCE! OUT OF MY SIGHT, UNWORTHY WRETCHES!"

"Oh good on you," snapped Ginny's voice. "You've gone and woken dear old mother Black again. Can't you let an old lady have a nap, Ron?"

"BLOOD TRAITORS! BETRAYERS!"

"Can it, you old hag," said Ginny coolly. "We're just passing through." There were some grunts as Harry and Ron wrestled the curtain closed again, and then all three of them burst noisily into the kitchen.

"Neville!" cried Harry. "Didn't expect to see you here! Brilliant! Exciting, isn't it? Finally invited to an Order meeting--"

"--How did you get here, Neville? We took dad's car, and I drove, but mum wouldn't let us fly--"

"--McGonagall, we were at St. Mungo's yesterday, wait until I tell you--"

"Come along, Percy, George! Keep Teddy quiet, will you, George? Don't want to wake Mrs. Black again, the neighbors might notice all the screaming. Heard it all the way down the street--Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley bustled in, followed closely by Percy and George. "Is Arthur up yet? Who else is here? It's early yet--oh, hello! Neville Longbottom, isn't it? So lovely to see you, dear. How you've grown, my goodness. Good morning, Severus. How was your trip? Ghastly business, all of that driving. Last time I ever let Ron behind the wheel--"

Hermione sat quietly, feeling as though a rather large, rather freckly hurricane had just blown into the kitchen. Everyone was talking, except for Professor Snape and herself. He looked studiously into his teacup, ignoring Mrs. Weasley and the rest of them with what appeared to be deliberate effort.

"Hermione," said Ron's voice in her ear suddenly. "I'm the world's biggest prat, and I don't deserve your forgiveness. How can I make it up to you?"

A copy of _The Daily Prophet_ lay on the table and he drew it closer, leaning over her as he pretended to read it.

"You can stop doing it," she muttered, viciously stabbing a bit of scrambled egg with her fork. "I'm tired of giving you second chances."

"Last one, then," he whispered coaxingly, brushing his lips against her temple. "I'll be a perfect angel this time, I promise." She sighed, pulling the newspaper away from him, unfolding it and ducking her head down. The thin paper did nothing to block out the noise, but at least it eliminated the dizzying swarm of red hair and freckles that had surrounded her. Even Teddy's hair had taken on the color of bright flames, and he was so spotted with freckles that there was practically no white skin visible.

"Good Lord, Molly," murmured Professor Snape. "Has the child got Spattergroit?"

"Don't be silly, Severus," she responded cheerfully. "You'd smell it if he did."

"I _do_," he answered, with a tone of greatest aversion.

Hermione peeked over the edge of the paper just in time to see Mrs. Weasley snatch Teddy from George's arms and raise his rump to her nose, taking a deep sniff. "Oh goodness, and we only just changed him. Toss me a nappy, will you, Percy? Clear a space, there," she said chattily, laying Teddy down on the kitchen table.

Professor Snape stood up suddenly, looking horrified. "Madam, surely you do not intend to remove that noxious thing while our breakfast plates are _still on the table_."

"He's only a baby, Severus, you shouldn't be so squeamish--"

"Mum!" wailed Ron. "He's got a point. Can't you do that somewhere else?"

"Oh _fine,_" she said sniffily, scooping Teddy into her arms once more and carrying him out of the room, looking much aggrieved.

"Sorry about that," muttered Ron. "I reckon she's just done it so many times..."

Professor Snape returned to his seat and his still-untouched breakfast, grunting unpleasantly at Ron and finally deigning to take a bite of egg, closing his eyes and chewing with a pained expression.

"That's mum for you," said Percy with a shrug.

"Got a problem with it?" snapped Ginny. Percy looked surprised, his eyes going innocently wide behind his glasses.

"Of course not, Gin. She's been doing it since before you were born anyway. I've got used to it."

Neville stood up and carried his teacup over to the sink, rinsing it out carefully before putting it away. "Whose baby is that, then? Have you got a baby brother, Ron?"

"It's Teddy Lupin," said George, very quietly. Neville's face tightened a little bit.

"Oh," he said softly. "P-professor Lupin's son, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I... he... didn't look much like Professor Lupin."

Professor Snape's teacup rattled slightly as he set it back on the saucer. "For once in your life, Longbottom, you've made an accurate observation. One would expect the child to be far hairier." His voice sounded oddly strangled to Hermione, and she stole a glimpse at him around her newspaper. There was a twisted, mocking smirk on his face, but something about his eyes didn't match the expression. He looked almost sad.

"You bastard," said Harry quietly, clenching his fists. "How dare you?"

"I dare, Potter, because he dared. I think you know of what I speak, yes? Shall I share the tale with your little friends? I'm sure they'd be quite interested by tales of the _Professor's_ exploits in our school days."

"He didn't _know_. Besides, he's dead, Snape, why can't you let it be?"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry," snapped Hermione angrily before anyone else could speak, slamming the paper down on the table. "And don't call him a bastard. We're all supposed to be on the same side, remember? Teddy's a metamorphmagus, Neville. Ugh--this is ridiculous. I can't be around you lot this soon after waking up."

She stood up, angrily carrying her dishes to the sink and leaving them there with a clatter. "See if you can't make yourself behave by lunchtime, Harry, I'd prefer not to have more than one meal spoiled."

0 0 0

The rest of them filed out of the kitchen shortly after Granger's outburst. He took another sip of tea, looking at the door she'd stormed out through. A night of sleep seemed to have done her a great deal of good, if she'd progressed all the way to shouting at people. Even if the shouting didn't seem to have a very sensible motivation behind it.

He wondered how much of his own anger and irritation she unconsciously picked up and fed off of. It wasn't the mention of Lupin, so much, that bothered him. The werewolf was dead, and they'd long ago struck up an uneasy acceptance of one another. But it was regretful that Lupin and Tonks had both died, and that they'd left behind a son. Just another thing to hate about Voldemort, and about the war in general, he supposed. He didn't like orphans.

The Weasleys set his teeth on edge lately, too. They were all right individually, but in a group he found them exhausting and stressful. They were practically the opposite of his own family, besides their poverty. Pure-blooded, cheerful, loud, ebullient Gryffindors all. And there was just--something.

The front door opened again, and footsteps moved through the front hall. "Severus!" chirped Hestia Jones, unwinding a long, striped scarf from around her neck and hanging it up by the fireplace to stay warm. "You're here early."

"Indeed," he said, taking another bite of egg. "We arrived last night."

"We?"

He felt his nostrils flare as he sniffed in annoyance. "I was given the task of transporting Miss Granger to the meeting, since she had no personal access to a non-magical means of transportation."

"Small world, isn't it?"

"Eh?"

"We're bringing the Muggles--Potter's family, you know. Minerva wanted them to meet the Order. Seemed to think it might convince them to stay in our care a bit longer. Personally, I think it's a fool's errand." She shook her head, helping herself to a cup of tea and sitting down.

He stared at the pink-cheeked witch, nearly dropping his fork. "Potter's--family?"

"I--WILL--NOT!" roared a voice from the hallway. The curtains flew away from Mrs. Black's portrait and she let loose a long, wordless shriek.

"NO!" she howled. "BEGONE FROM THIS HOUSE! DESECRATION AND SHAME UPON MY HOME! MUGGLES AND FILTH, WORTHLESS EXCRESCENCES--"

"Oh for heaven's sake," puffed the voice of Dedalus Diggle. "My dear Mr. Dursley, I _did_ warn you about shouting in the hallway--"

"PETUNIA!" roared the voice again. "THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! THE LAST STRAW, I TELL YOU!" Severus jerked back from his seat, barely hearing the crash as it fell to the floor.

"--MUGGLES AND FILTH! HOW DARE YOU VIOLATE--"

"Madam! If you please!" shouted Diggle rather desperately. "You--Dudley, help me with the curtain, will you? Yes, that's right, pull it quite closed."

Blessed silence fell once again. Severus felt ill. "Blimey," said a new voice, rather dull and oafish. "This is Harry's house?"

"Yes," said Diggle, sounding strained. "This way, please, into the kitchen. Mind the umbrella stand, we don't want to disturb Mrs. Black again."

"Mrs. Black?" asked yet another voice sharply. He felt his heart turn over in his chest. Literally turn over. Merlin help him, she was right outside the door, and Hestia was sitting right there, watching him. He couldn't exactly run away, with her eyes trained so curiously on his face. "Did you say 'Black'?"

"That's right," Diggle answered, his voice still muffled through the door. "Used to be Sirius Black's... Why, Severus! Good morning!"

He was wearing that ridiculous top hat. Two massive, round men stood directly beside him. The elder, he supposed, was Petunia's husband. Severus would have smirked, if he wasn't so aware that their huge bulk undoubtedly hid _her_. The man was apoplectic with rage, purple in the face and sputtering angrily. Severus decided that he looked a bit like Slughorn under the influence of a Swelling Solution. The boy, presumably Petunia's son, was more muscular. His nose turned up, and Severus had a fleeting impression of a very tall, blond pig.

"Have a seat, have a seat," Diggle was insisting cheerfully, shepherding his Muggle charges toward the kitchen table. Petunia's husband looked completely furious, but he seemed to find Severus intimidating in a way that Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones weren't, for he took one look at him and took the offered seat without another protest. Severus smiled cruelly at him, and the man recoiled as though from a snake. As he should.

"Dumbledore said Black left him a house, but I didn't realize--" Petunia stopped short, her mouth falling open. Severus nearly shook his head in disbelief. More than twenty years, and the woman still hadn't done anything about those teeth. Surely she could have put enough money by at this point to pay for all manner of Muggle orthodontia.

"Petunia," he murmured politely, bowing smoothly from the waist.

"S-Severus?" she gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "What are you doing here?"

"Severus?" her husband growled. "Another one of these--these _people_ that you know, Petunia?"

"Why Petunia," he said smoothly. "You haven't told your husband about me?"

Her eyes widened. "Severus."

"That is, as you have so eloquently pointed out, my name." He smirked. She hadn't seen him in years, and she was flustered and out of her element. Surely she wouldn't see the terror he felt at being a mere three feet away from her.

Hestia and Dedalus were looking from him to Petunia bemusedly. "Severus?" said Hestia carefully. "You know Pet--er, Mrs. Dursley?"

He smiled slowly. "She was Miss Evans when I knew her."

"Petunia," hissed her husband warningly.

"Hush, Vernon," she snapped, pulling her hands away from her face and wringing them nervously. "I--he was friends with _her_. In school."

"Don't talk about her in that tone of voice," he snarled, before he could stop himself. She flinched, and her husband--Vernon, apparently--jumped from his seat.

"Do not address my wife in that manner, sir!" he shouted. Severus whirled around, pulling his wand from his sleeve and pointing it in the man's pudgy face before Hestia or Dedalus could react

"Don't presume to speak to me as though you can order me around, Dursley," he hissed dangerously. "I will address your wife in whatever manner I see fit, and she _will not_ speak of Lily Evans in that tone of voice while I am present."

Vernon Dursley's fat, meaty hands clenched into fists and he took a step closer to Severus, apparently attempting to intimidate him by his sheer mass. "Oho," he said with a soft, malicious chuckle. "Sensitive about the boy's mother, are you? Got what she deserved, if you ask me. I've told the boy time and again, they had it coming, running around in those ridiculous cloaks, waving their filthy _wands_ about, just like y--"

Severus' wrist snapped and his wand moved in a swift slashing motion. Dursley made a choking noise and stopped speaking abruptly, although his eyes nearly bugged out of his head from the sheer force of the effort he put in to finishing his sentence.

"Oi," said the boy to Hestia in a loud whisper. "Is that Severus _Snape_? The Potions bloke?"

"Quite," he said coldly, wand still trained on Dursley's purple face. The man's lips were working oddly and Severus smiled again. It was the most he'd enjoyed anything close to Muggle-baiting in many years.

Petunia made an indistinct noise in the back of her throat. "Leave him alone, Severus," she said angrily. "He doesn't know--"

"I suggest you inform your _husband_," he sneered, "that he had better keep his unusually ugly mouth closed if he does not wish to find my wand going down his throat."

"I see you haven't changed," she snapped.

"Oh no," he whispered softly, finally turning to face her and slowly lowering his wand. "You will find that I _have _changed, Petunia. I am much, much worse." She stared at him but didn't back down, and he had the disconcerting impression that she knew he was putting on an act, at least to some degree.

"I trust you've been well," he said with icy politeness. "Can I offer you a cup of tea, Petunia? Although we are in your nephew's house, I'm afraid he's too busy with his little friends to play host, at the moment."

Dursley snorted, apparently having regained the power of speech. "Little brat never did have any manners," he grunted _sotto voce_. Severus quirked one eyebrow.

"Indeed, I must agree with your husband on that matter, Petunia. Unlike him, however, I recognize that it is you I ought to hold responsible for his reprehensible lack of manners. Which reminds me, now that you are here, I really must ask you--what were you _thinking?_"

"What do you mean?" she asked angrily, still unmoving.

He smiled amusedly, which she seemed to find very unnerving indeed. "I heard a rumor that you actually tried to tell the boy that his mother died in a car accident."

Her face changed color, and she sputtered something that sounded like "Vernon--"

"We were shocked when he arrived at Hogwarts, you know," he whispered poisonously. "Oh, how people _talked_. Lily Potter's son, dressed in rags and wandering about with no clue that his mother was the most brilliant witch of her year. You should have heard them, _Tuney_, asking what kind of horrible Muggle sister Lily must have had to neglect him so--"

"We... it wasn't safe..."

He laughed mockingly. "You were interested in his safety, were you? Locking little boys in closets to keep the neighbors from finding out they can do magic--funny, that reminds me of something else. You can't even be original in your cruelty," he spat. "Did you do it on purpose? Struck by the poetic justice of torturing Lily's son in the same way that made her weep when she saw it done to me, perhaps?"

She did back away this time, slowly, until she bumped into the frame of the door. He advanced. Everyone else in the room stared, seemingly struck dumb by their exchange.

"Betrayal!" he hissed furiously. "Traitor to your sister's memory!"

"Vernon--" she said again, sounding helpless.

"Is surely responsible for every cruel, bitter word that has spewed from _your_ mouth to wound Lily's son in the last nineteen years, Petunia," he snarled. "Or is there something else? Does he know your secret? Does he know what _I_ know about you?"

"No!" she nearly shrieked, her eyes going as wide as saucers. "Severus, no!"

"What's all this, then?" asked a cheerful voice from the opposite doorway. Everyone turned, blinking at Arthur Weasley as though he came from another world. "Upon my word, if it isn't the Muggles--Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, is it not? Arthur Weasley! We've met before," he beamed.

"I--er--yes," said Petunia confusedly. "Mr.--Weasley."

"But this is wonderful!" he continued cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the tense scene that his entrance had so completely. "Did you only just get here? How perfectly lovely--let me just fetch Molly. Would you like anything? Tea? Coffee? Er--pumpkin juice?"

"That would be... nice," she said reluctantly.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, as he finally began to make sense of the tableau before him. Severus was still looming threateningly over Petunia, and the male Dursleys were watching anxiously. Hestia's mouth hung open and Dedalus was literally trembling with suppressed emotion.

"No," said Petunia very carefully and slowly. "Nothing at all, Mr. W--Arthur." He beamed again. "And some tea would be lovely, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. It's quite chilly out." Vernon snorted, shifting his gargantuan weight on the bench where he sat, although he did not give voice to whatever irritating thought was now running through his little mind. "I was merely getting re-acquainted with an old... friend, as you see."

"An old friend?" repeated Arthur bemusedly. "But who-- Do you mean Severus?"

She nodded hastily, and Severus drew a deep breath, stepping back from her. The interruption was not unwelcome. He'd nearly attacked her and her husband, right in front of Hestia and Dedalus, no less. It was unfair of Minerva to spring this on him without warning, and he fully intended to tell her so. To force him to spend an evening alone with Granger and then to bring Petunia and her bloody family to a meeting of the Order. The woman was mad if she thought he'd let that pass without complaint. His jaw ached, and he realized that he'd been grinding his teeth.

"My goodness!" said Arthur, looking as though he couldn't decide whether to be shocked or delighted. "Well, I'll just go and fetch Molly!" He hurried out of the room as suddenly as he had entered.

Severus looked at Petunia uncomfortably. She was avoiding his eyes. Hestia and Dedalus remained silent, as well. In fact, everybody seemed to prefer silence at the moment. He supposed there wasn't really much to say. He rarely lingered after these confrontations; it suited his purposes better to stalk away dramatically. Arthur had rather ruined that, though, so instead he bent over and finally picked up the chair that he'd knocked over, sitting down stiffly.

"Well," said Hestia at length. "Once Arthur and Molly come back in, perhaps Harry will show you around. Give you a little tour, you know."

Nobody answered her.

0 0 0

"You look awful, Hermione," said Harry bluntly from the doorway. She lifted her head from the book she was reading and frowned at him.

"Thanks. You always give the best compliments, Harry."

He closed the door carefully and sat down on the bed next to her. "I'd like to help you. Everyone can see something's wrong," he said helplessly. "But I've got no idea what it is."

"I don't need help," she said quietly, eyes still on her book. "I'm just fine."

"Really? Because you just yelled at Professor Snape a few minutes ago."

She closed the book carefully and sat up on her knees. "He drove me here from Manchester last night."

"Mr. Weasley told us."

"He spent a long time lecturing about potions."

Harry shrugged. "Better than awkward silence, isn't it?"

"_Blood_ potions."

"You mean--"

"I don't know," she said desperately. "But we weren't supposed to cover them until nearly the end of the year, and I don't know why else he'd bring it up out of nowhere.

"D'you think Neville gave it away?"

"I don't _know_, Harry."

"But he didn't say anything about our potion specifically?"

"No," she said slowly. "It could have been just a coincidence. But oh, Harry, it's an awfully big coincidence, isn't it?"

Someone knocked loudly on the door. "Let us in, Hermione!" yelled Ginny.

"It's open," she answered, and the knob turned. The door swung open to reveal Ginny, Ron and Neville, who hurried in and closed it behind them again.

"Mum's being bloody _revolting_ over that baby," groused Ron. "Breaking down and getting all sniffly anytime someone reminds her that Tonks' mum is coming to take him."

"Just because you don't like babies, Ron," said Ginny grumpily.

"Of course I do," he answered stoutly. "I just think mum's a nutter in general."

"What's wrong?" asked Neville, when he caught sight of Hermione and Harry's faces.

"Neville," said Hermione carefully. "Is there any way that Professor Snape could have seen you take that blood from him?"

He turned slightly green, but he shook his head. "No, Hermione. He was out. Really. You know him; it's not like he'd pretend to make me feel better, and if he was pretending in order to attack me, he'd have done that, and he didn't. I wouldn't have taken it if I wasn't sure."

Watching Ginny lock the door and whisper a silencing spell, she chewed anxiously on her lower lip. "Is there any other way he could find out, do you think?"

"Harry's aunt could have told," suggested Ron doubtfully.

"What makes you think he knows?" asked Ginny.

"He spent the drive from Manchester to London lecturing me about blood potions," said Hermione tensely.

"Oh. Well, it could be--"

"Coincidence, I know. But it could _not_ be."

"Well," said Neville reasonably. "Even if he does know, there's nothing we can do about it now. We might as well keep going, yeah?"

"We've got it here," said Harry suddenly. "What about Snape's--have we got his blood?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "In the closet, with your aunt's. But we still need the hair, so--"

There was another bang on the door. "Oi! Kids!" shouted Arthur Weasley through the door. "Harry, your family's here! Come downstairs and have some tea with us!"

The blood drained from Harry's face as completely as if a vampire had latched itself on to his neck. "My family?"

"D'you think--" said Ron, looking horrified.

"It couldn't be," said Harry. "Could it?"

"Your aunt and uncle," said Neville. "I heard Professor McGonagall talking to someone about it last night through the Floo. What's the problem?"

"They're _awful_," groaned Ron.

"Well we'd better go down," said Ginny matter-of-factly. "You don't want to leave Snape alone with your aunt and uncle, do you?"

"No! What if she tells him?"

"Tells him what?"

"She knows about the potion, Ginny. We had to tell her, to get her blood."

"She wouldn't," Hermione gasped. "Would she?"

"I don't know," said Harry miserably.

She shook her head. "Let's go, then. You ought to be nice to them anyway, Harry. They're you're family." She hopped off the bed and put her book away, walking briskly out of the room and down the stairs.

0 0 0

Arthur and Molly returned, followed soon after by Minerva, Potter, and the rest of the Gryffindor students. Molly immediately began talking, keeping up a cheerful stream of inane, one-sided conversation as she bustled around the kitchen, preparing cocoa, tea, coffee and juice to the taste of each member of the large army that was beginning to assemble in the kitchen. He gave up his seat to Minerva, retreating to a corner where he could watch in relative peace.

By the time everyone had a beverage, the Dursley boy had broken away from his father's side and joined the knot of students on the other side of the room, talking in low tones about something he couldn't quite make out, although he caught several glances in his direction. He was surprised to see that Harry seemed more or less to get along with the great, lumpy mass that was his cousin. Vernon Dursley also seemed surprised, and he kept glaring across the room, obviously wishing he could put a stop to it, but afraid of the repercussions if he did. Severus caught his eye and smirked at him. He jumped.

"How was the trip, Severus?" Minerva asked, peering out the kitchen windows as rain began to fall outside. "Not too painful, I hope."

"This is the part where I utter some pleasantry about how you're quite correct, it really wasn't all that bad to spend hours in the car with a student," he answered sourly. "I hope your imagination remains active enough to pretend that I have done so."

Yet again, the front door opened. "Quiet, Bill!" hissed a voice. "Do not wake zat 'orrible portrait again!"

"After you, lovely," answered Bill, holding open the kitchen door. "Morning, mum. Got anything hot to drink? It's turning nasty out there."

"Bill! Fleur!" Molly cried delightedly, hurrying forward to envelop them both in a hug. Severus winced. Still more Weasleys. The only comfort in it was that the Dursleys were even less happy to see them than he was. "Vernon, Petunia, this is my son, Bill, and his wife Fleur. They were married just over a year ago now." She absolutely glowed with motherly pride. "Bill and Fleur, this is Harry's aunt and uncle!"

Everyone shook hands all around, yet again. He saw Petunia surreptitiously wipe her hand on the side of her skirt. The front door opened yet again and in a moment, Viktor Krum waddled, duck-legged, into the kitchen.

"Viktor!" squeaked Granger, breaking free from her friends and rushing to give the Bulgarian seeker a hug. "I didn't know you'd joined the Order!" Ron Weasley scowled darkly and Severus wondered if they were in for a repeat performance of the scene at the Ball. As if the day wasn't bad enough already.

"Yes, Herm-own-ninny," Krum replied with an affectionate grin. Severus winced. The boy had been Karkaroff's favorite, a triwizard champion; he wasn't an utter fool. And yet he insisted on mispronouncing Granger's name. Dursley's face had begun to go an alarming shade of puce--wizards were bad enough, but dark, intimidating foreign wizards were worse.

"Who's that?" he grumbled to Hestia. Her usually pink cheeks had flushed to a dark red, and she was staring at Krum with a rather awestruck expression.

"Viktor Krum" she whispered. "He's rather a--a famous athlete."

Dursley snorted. "What's he play then? I've never seen him."

"Quidditch." Dursley immediately looked like he was sorry he'd asked. Petunia had somehow been roped into a discussion of the back garden with Molly, who was pointing out its meager charms with an air of pride in Harry's possessions that Petunia seemed to find absolutely bewildering.

The front door opened and closed slowly. He barely had time to wonder who it was before the kitchen door burst open. Kingsley Shacklebolt's robes were dripping wet from the cold November rain. His hat was askew, and his face was flushed. Something in his face made Severus pay attention, and he wasn't the only one who saw it. Everyone in the kitchen fell silent, watching him expectantly.

"There's been another attack."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Still more thanks to JunoMagic for idea-bouncing and whatnot. 

Also thanks to reviewers and readers, especially those who have left such wonderful detailed, thought-out responses to things in previous chapters. Frequently, the analysis I get from you wonderful, thoughtful people helps me clarify my own thinking about what's going on and where to go next.

Viktor is still mispronouncing Hermione's name on purpose, as sort of an affectionate inside joke, I think.


	24. Petunia's Secret

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 24: Petunia's Secret**

* * *

A dozen pairs of eyes stared apprehensively at Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic.

And then it seemed that everybody was talking at once. The kitchen was even noisier than it had been when the Weasleys first arrived, and Hermione wanted nothing so much as to just cover her ears. Finally, Professor McGonagall pushed her way through the crowded kitchen to stand beside Kingsley, raising her arms, one hand still gripping the cane that she was still forced to lean on.

"Silence!" she cried. The Order members, out of habit, obeyed immediately. Harry's relatives stared, white-faced--that is to say, Petunia and Dudley stared. Mr. Dursley appeared to be trying to say something but his wife had, rather shockingly, clapped a hand over his mouth. Professor McGonagall waited until his very muffled grunts had died down before she turned to the Minister tensely.

"When, Kingsley? And who?"

"Early this morning, we think. Three, maybe four o'clock. Aurors are already there, of course--the press hasn't got hold of it, thank Merlin." His usually rich and expressive voice was noticeably strained.

"Who?"

He hesitated. "The Jordans."

Hermione felt her chest tighten horribly. Beside her, Ron seemed to stumble. His arm shot forward as he sought for balance, and she unthinkingly laid her hand across it to still him.

The Headmistress' eyes were wide and fearful. "And the casualties?"

"Both parents were killed. Aurors report that the son was wounded and is in St. Mungo's under a security lockdown."

"NO!" Hermione hadn't noticed Percy and George enter the kitchen, but now George was shoving her aside, pushing past her and skirting the kitchen table, running at the Minister with a frantic expression. Shacklebolt caught George by the arms with surprising gentleness, holding him where he was.

"Geroff me! I'm going to St Mungo's!" George struggled, to no avail. "Let me go!"

Shacklebolt looked down into his face regretfully. "Weasley, I cannot allow that. Nobody's being allowed in or out. I know you've worked closely together--the radio broadcast last year was invaluable to us. But you can't see him. Only Healers can get in and out, and even then it takes a higher level of security clearance than you'll probably ever have."

Behind her, Hermione heard Ginny give a loud sniff. Her own eyes were stinging with tears as she watched Mr. Weasley get up and gently lead his son from the room, still struggling and making frenzied attempts to get to the door. George had frightened and upset her badly enough when he stopped speaking. The hysteria was worse.

"Come, George. No, you heard what Kingsley said. The Healers will do everything they can, you know that--shh. Quiet, son, everything is going to be all right, you'll see. No, Molly, you stay here, I'll take care of him--"

As they left, Professor Snape stood up, his eyes following George out of the room. "The boy needs a Calming Draught. With your permission, Headmistress, my arrival has been witnessed by those who are observing us, I am sure, and they will be none the wiser if I Apparate from the house briefly to fetch some."

Professor McGonagall looked up at him wearily. "Hm? Oh, yes, Severus. Go to Hogwarts and get him a potion, by all means." Gripping her cane, she sank back into a chair, closing her eyes. Without wasting any more time, Professor Snape turned in a neat circle and disappeared with a bang. Petunia Dursley shrieked and her husband jumped to his feet once more, his eyes wild.

"I have had enough of this nonsense!" he shouted, slamming his fat hand down on the table. "You will release my family to our own home at once!"

Minister Shackelbolt seemed to notice them for the first time and his eyebrows lifted slightly. "Mr. Dursley, I presume?" he asked politely. Harry's uncle narrowed his piggy little eyes.

"You're--Shackleford, aren't you? Wizard who works for the Prime Minister?"

"I did do, before I became Minister for Magic," he said calmly. "And it's Shackle_bolt_, actually. I wasn't aware that you were going to be present at this meeting." He glanced at Professor McGonagall rather sternly. Her lips tightened.

"I am acting Head of the Order, Kingsley," she said. "And the Dursleys wish to discuss the possibility of being returned to their Muggle neighborhood. I authorized Hestia and Dedalus to bring them. Be that as it may," she added, before Mr. Dursley or Minister Shacklebolt could say anything, "the meeting has not yet begun. I do not think we should discuss it before all are assembled."

"We've waited long enough!" said Mr. Dursley, whose face seemed to be perpetually purple with unexpressed fury.

Professor McGonagall gave him a look that had made better men quail. "Mr. Dursley," she said, in a tone very similar to the one she used for lecturing recalcitrant first years. "I am in charge of these proceedings and I have said that we will not discuss any of these matters until all are present. If you cannot restrain yourself, I will ask Hestia and Dedalus to remove you." She turned away from him dismissively. "Kingsley, are you sure the Ministry can spare you today?"

He looked at her gravely. "I believe my time would be best spent here. My top Aurors are taking care of it. There's... well, you'll hear about it at the meeting." He looked around, taking in the pale, worried faces around him. "Who are we waiting for?"

She looked around the kitchen. "Aberforth, Sturgis, and Andromeda."

"And Proudfoot," Shacklebolt added. "He's seeing to the Jordan house right now, but he'll be joining us as soon as they're finished there."

"I think," said Professor McGonagall wearily, "that we ought to disperse. There is no reason to crowd the kitchen at this point." She gave Hermione, Harry and Ron a significant look. "You will all be alerted when it is time for the meeting to begin."

"Let's go," whispered Neville. Slowly, they filed out. Dudley and Viktor came with them, Viktor staying very close to Hermione as they climbed the stairs to Harry's bedroom. Being smaller, it soon felt just as crowded as the kitchen had. Hermione conjured a pillow and sat down on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. Ron sat down next to her, and Viktor stood glaring down at them with a look of mild irritation.

"D'you think he'll be okay?" asked Ron in a small voice, looking quite shaken.

"The Healers at St. Mungo's are really good," said Neville stoutly. "I'm sure he'll be just fine."

Harry lay on his bed, his head propped up on his hands. Ginny curled up beside him, catlike, staring at the wall. "Why Lee?"

"It's obvious, isn't it Ginny?" Harry shook his head slowly. "He's been a thorn in their sides all year, with that Potterwatch broadcast. Someone must've found out it was him."

"Potterwatch?" asked Viktor quizzically.

Dudley, who seemed to be engrossed by the Quidditch posters on the wall, turned around. "Radio broadcast," he said. Hermione decided he'd sound much more intelligent if he didn't grunt when he spoke. "Not really just about Harry. More about the war and the Order in general, though they did mention Harry a lot. Bit like Allied Radio was, in World War Two, eh?"

Viktor narrowed his eyes. "And who are you?" he asked, his accent lending a slightly menacing tone to the words.

"That's my cousin," supplied Harry. "Dudley."

"Ah. I do not remember hearing of a cousin."

"That'll be because I'm a Muggle," said Dudley cheerfully. "I've never heard of you either."

"Krum. Viktor Krum." They shook hands.

"Krum's a seeker for the Bulgarian Quidditch team, Dudley," Hermione explained. Neville and Ginny still looked a bit flustered by the fact that Viktor was in the room with them. Ron merely glowered unpleasantly, although he finally seemed to be showing a little sense, for he kept his mouth firmly closed.

"How do you know about... er... Potterwatch?" asked Harry, who was looking at his cousin with a very odd expression.

"Hestia gave us a radio. Dad refuses to be in the room when it's on and mum pretends not to listen, but once they showed me how to tune in, I guess I... well, I got bored, after a while. No television in the safe house." He shrugged. "And after a while I stopped being bored and got interested, instead." Harry thought that a year without television had done Dudley a great deal of good, and he said so. Dudley grinned sheepishly.

"Er--Ron?" he asked carefully. "Is your brother going to be alright?"

Hermione winced. He wasn't as thick as Harry had always let on, but Dudley didn't have much more tact than his father, when it boiled down to it. Even Viktor looked uncomfortable with the question. Ron just blinked slowly, turning to look at Dudley.

"D'you mean George?" he asked vaguely. "Yeah, he'll pull through. He's... had a hard time of it."

Hermione was desperately signaling with her eyes for Dudley to shut up. Whether it was that or Ron's tone of voice, she didn't know, but he finally seemed to get the message. "Oh," he said slowly. "Okay, then."

0 0 0

Severus walked hurriedly back to Hogwarts. He wasn't terribly concerned about the Weasley boy, per se, but it wouldn't do anybody any good if they were forced to deal with his nervous breakdown in the middle of an Order meeting. He made it to the dungeons without being seen and carefully tucked a vial of Calming Draught into an inner pocket of his robes. After a moment's consideration, he added a headache potion as well.

The steady, cold rain that had been falling in London seemed to have followed him to Hogwarts, and he didn't relish the idea of subjecting himself to it again when there was a cheerfully crackling fire only a few feet away. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the mantel, he tossed it into the fire and, with a quick "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," disappeared in a rush of green flame.

A screech and a loud thud greeted him and, as he stepped out of the flames and regained his bearings, it became apparent that once again he'd managed to completely terrify Petunia. He smiled in spite of himself. Baiting Petunia was a hobby that apparently was quite like riding a bicycle. Once learned, it simply became innate, no matter how much time went by.

"Old friend," he murmured, feeling his smile twist into something unpleasant. She glared at him. Vernon Dursley, on the other hand, seemed to have decided that the best way to cope with being surrounded by wizards and confined to an unmistakably magical house was to ignore it all and stare stonily at the floor, probably willing it to disappear.

"Severus," she said coldly.

He fished in his robes for a moment and withdrew the Calming Draught, holding it up for her to see. "I have other things to attend to, but when I am done, we shall have to... catch up. I will return." Not waiting to see if she flinched, he swept from the room in search of the Weasleys.

After a few repetitious inquiries, he finally found them in an empty guest bedroom on the third floor.

"--In the room besides, and I'm sure it can't have been, Arthur," he heard Molly saying as he approached the door. Her voice had an air of finality that her husband seemed unwilling to question. Lifting his hand, Severus rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood.

"Yes?"

"I have returned with a potion for your s--George."

The door opened. Up close, Arthur looked far more haggard than Severus had ever seen him before. Molly, too, looked changed in some indefinable way. Her face seemed sharper, somehow. Of course, you fool, he reminded himself. One of their children has been murdered. He held out the potion, glancing over Molly's shoulder to the spot where their son crouched, staring out the window tensely.

Arthur took the potion, looking grim. "Two mouthfuls to start," said Severus evenly. "Another every hour as long as he needs it. Don't give him any more than that if you want him to be able to participate in the meeting."

"Thank you, Severus."

"No need." He shrugged sardonically. "It was a self-serving gesture. I have no energy to deal with hysterics today."

Molly looked angry, but Arthur flashed him a tired smile. "Send someone up to alert us when Minerva's ready to begin the meeting."

"Of course."

0 0 0

"Wait," said Harry. "He said _what_?"

"Said my mum was a traitor to... to Aunt Lily's memory, for the way she treated you growing up."

"I don't think I believe you, Dud."

"All I can tell you is, I'm glad he wasn't looking at me like that." Dudley shuddered.

"Just be glad you never had to take a class with him," said Neville darkly.

Hermione rolled her eyes, once again feeling that strange prickle of annoyance which was growing to be so familiar. "He wasn't that bad."

"Not that bad? Don't listen to her, Dudley, she's gone mad. Snape's a nightmare in class."

"_Professor _Snape, Ron. And you said yourself that you like his Defense class. What did you call it? Brilliant, wasn't it?"

"That's different," said Ron reasonably. "That's Defense."

"Defense?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Harry to his cousin. "Hexes, jinxes, curses, and how to counter them. How to deal with monsters and stuff, too."

Dudley stared. "Every time I start to think I'm jealous of you, you go and say something like that and I realize how bloody glad I am to be on the outside."

"But you are not," said Viktor in surprise. Everyone looked at him. "You are Harry Potter's cousin. Muggle or not, you are on the inside already. If it was not so, a safe house would not be necessary."

"What's that?" asked Neville. For a moment, Hermione though he simply wasn't following the conversation, but then she heard it too. Voices. Very muffled, but raised. She saw Ron and Harry exchange a look and both jumped to her feet.

Ginny got off the bed and cautiously opened the door a crack. It was still impossible to distinguish what they were saying, but Hermione recognized one of those voices. Professor Snape was talking to someone--rather loudly, in fact.

Whoever it was answered him, and Dudley cocked his head to one side. "That's my mum, isn't it?"

Harry closed his eyes, listening. "Yeah... sounds like. Nobody else in the Order is that..."

"Shrill?" said Ron helpfully. Dudley made a noise that sounded like it might have been a laugh, if he hadn't stifled it so thoroughly.

"Harry, have you got any Extendable Ears in here?"

"Yeah. Top drawer of my dresser. Never know when they're going to come in handy, eh?"

Ron yanked the dresser drawer open and pulled out two long, fleshy strings. After a quick explanation to Neville, Viktor and Dudley, they crept out into the hallway and Hermione carefully levitated them towards the opposite door, where the voices seemed to be coming from. They retreated back to Harry's room and closed the door again, gathering in two small groups around the Ears and all straining to hear.

"--Nothing to say to you, Severus."

"Oh come, Petunia. Surely after so many years there are things to... discuss. For instance, I have not yet inquired after your parents."

"They're dead," she said shortly. There was a long pause; Hermione thought she heard a quick intake of breath, and assumed it was Professor Snape's.

"I am sorry," he said, sounding surprisingly genuine. "I was not informed."

Mrs. Dursley's voice grew cruel. "No reason to inform you, was there?"

"Was there?"

"No."

"Tell me, do you enjoy wielding the pathetic shred of power that you hold? Does cruelty appeal to you, Petunia? It would certainly explain some things." His voice was getting soft again, laced with something that made the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand on end.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly.

"I know more about you than you think I do." His voice was downright dangerous by now. She wondered why Mrs. Dursley didn't seem to have the good sense to flee.

"My idiot sister shared a great many of my secrets with you, I'm sure."

"I have warned you already, Petunia. You will not speak of her that way to me!"

"Get that thing out of my face, Severus Snape," she hissed. "I won't be bullied by you."

"Oh no? I think differently, Petunia Evans. I think you will."

"It's Petunia _Dursley_." She changed topics abruptly. "How are your parents, Sev?" the nickname sounded horrible and cruel coming from her lips. "So sorry I didn't ask before. You've only just now reminded me of them." Hermione felt a jolt of anger and nausea that seemed to come from nowhere.

"Dead," he said dispassionately. "And I have long since come to terms with it. Your sad little insinuations mean nothing to me, Petunia. I told you, I have changed."

"Have you? I have yet to see it."

He growled. Actually growled. There was no other way to describe the feral, angry sound that came from him. "You never did, did you?"

"Lily was right about you," she said. Hermione's throat seemed to be closing up. She wanted to run, wanted to stop listening to this. The words were merely unpleasant, but the tones in the voices were pure poison. They ate into her mind like acid, but she couldn't pull away.

"...What did Lily say about me?"

"That it wouldn't be worth the effort to tell me what you fought over."

He snorted. "Still preoccupied with that bit of pettiness?"

"Oh shut up, Snape. It's your worst bloody memory," said a voice. Hermione glanced up and realized with a bit of a shock that it was Harry speaking. She'd forgotten that the rest of them were there--forgotten that she wasn't in the room with Professor Snape and Mrs. Dursley, watching the argument take place before her eyes.

"You certainly don't seem to be over it."

"On the contrary. I have other things far more worthy of my regret," he said coolly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I will not waste my time attempting to make you understand it, Petunia. By the way," he reverted to a casual, conversational tone, "I have news you might be interested in, concerning a mutual friend of ours."

"What? We have no mutual friends."

"Lucius Malfoy would beg to differ."

There was a stunned silence. Everybody except for Dudley seemed to gasp all at once, and Harry's grip on his Extendable Ear tightened convulsively.

"Who's that?" asked Dudley confusedly.

"What do you know about Lucius Malfoy?" she said slowly.

"A great many things," he said cruelly. Closing her eyes, Hermione could imagine them perfectly. Mrs. Dursley shrinking back as Professor Snape loomed angrily over her, his hair casting his face into shadow so that only his eyes would glitter out at her, hard and cold. "The better question is, what do _you_ know about him, Petunia?"

"Whatever I know is eighteen years out of date."

"Really?" he murmured. "Odd, I'd have thought he'd keep in touch after Harry became your ward."

Hermione could hear the frown in her voice when she spoke. "Why should he?"

"Oh, Lucius has always taken a particular interest in your nephew. In fact, I'd imagine that he knows more about Potter... Harry... than you do."

"Why should Lucius be interested in Harry?"

"Your sister was a brilliant woman. I have always wondered how it is possible for you, therefore, to be so patently stupid." Hermione thought she heard Harry snicker, but she was too focused on Professor Snape and Mrs. Dursley to be sure. "I know his plan succeeded, Petunia, but he never shared the details. Did he seduce you? Win you over? What story did he tell you that could overcome your jealousy and win your sympathy instead?"

"His--plan?"

"Oh dear, Tuney. Surely you didn't think even after all these years that he was _genuine_."

"I..."

"Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban prison," he said abruptly. "And is due to face trial in one month, for being a Death Eater."

"Lucius? A Death Eater?" she laughed derisively. "Severus, you've lost your mind if you believe that."

"I swear on your sister's life that it is the truth."

"Hestia or Dedalus would have mentioned it..."

"Why would they? No reason for them to bring him up when they had no way to know that you were once so--intimately acquainted."

"What evidence do you have? He could have... he could have been falsely accused."

Professor Snape didn't answer, but they heard a soft gasp and Hermione realized that he must have pulled up his sleeve. "Recognize it, Petunia?" he whispered cruelly. "Don't turn your face away, woman. Look at it! You know what that mark is, do you not? I know you have seen it before."

She didn't answer. Hermione's chest was burning and she finally realized that it was she'd stopped breathing. She drew in a deep, gasping breath and slowly the burning subsided.

"The Dark Mark," he said softly. She pictured him, holding his arm out to Harry's aunt, advancing relentlessly until they were mere centimeters apart. "No mere decorative tattoo. Oh no. A sign of servitude to a most Dark Lord."

"I should have known," she whispered.

"Oh yes, you should have," he said angrily.

"Should have known," she repeated, "that you'd become one of them."

"Oh, not just one of them, Petunia. The Dark Lord's most trusted spy. And a murderer. I hope that you rejoice in the claim that you knew all along I'd amount to no good."

"I--"

"Before you say anything," he said softly, "consider, Petunia. How much did you tell Malfoy about your sister while he lay in your bed? Perhaps you mentioned a few things? Did he provide a kind listening ear into which you could whisper of your jealousy, your hatred for Lily and James? Perhaps you mentioned Black and Lupin and Pettigrew to him? Or your anger when you learned that they were expecting a child?"

"How did you--"

He laughed mirthlessly. "You don't understand, do you? He _used_ you. Malfoy used you to get information about your sister. Did Dumbledore's letter not tell you? Lily was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Oh yes, she was a member in good standing of this very Order that will meet today. We were spying on them. I must say, it was ingenious of Lucius to think of using you to collect information on Lily. So very much his style."

She made a soft, disbelieving noise, and he pressed on: "We have something in common, you and I. Perhaps you'd like to know what it is?"

"N-no, I don't think--"

"Look at my arm again, Petunia. The mark of Death, yes? Have you got one?"

"I--"

"I know that you do not. And yet you are a murderer, Petunia," he whispered harshly. "Just like me."

"No! I don't even know what you're talking about! Severus, let me out of here--"

"Not until you hear what I have to tell you. I am tired of being the sole bearer of this guilt."

"Let me out! Severus, please!"

"You _killed_ her, Petunia!"

"No!" she wailed, and there was a muffled thump. It sounded like she'd backed into a wall.

"Oh, Lucius was well-rewarded for the information he got from you. Lily and James Potter, the Headmaster's beloved Gryffindors, members of the Order, and their beloved son," he spat. "You even told him the boy's birthday. Fool!"

"What--what did his birthday matter?"

"There was a prophecy." His voice was back to deadly calm. It was not reassuring. "It spoke of a child born at the end of the seventh month--July, Petunia, if that is too poetic for your feeble mind to grasp. A child that the Dark Lord had great reason to fear."

"But--"

"And so," he continued, cruelly, "he went to seek the child out, and murdered his parents when they attempted to rescue him."

"It isn't my fault, Severus! How could I know?"

"Oh indeed," he agreed sarcastically. "It isn't your fault that your sister died because you allowed Lucius Malfoy to flatter you into betraying her secrets. It isn't your fault, any more than it is my fault that she died because it was I who first told the Dark Lord of the prophecy, not knowing what he would do with it!"

"You?" she sounded utterly horrified.

"I told you; we are both murderers, Petunia."

"_You_ killed her!"

"I do not attempt to deny it." In that moment, his voice seemed to hold the entire weight of the world within it. "But, unlike you, I at least attempted to atone. I fled from the Dark Lord, made myself a spy, swore myself to Dumbledore! I protected her son!"

"I cared for him for eleven years--"

"You tortured him," he said flatly. "There is no love lost between Potter and myself, but at least I tried to do him some good."

"I tr--"

"You disgust me."

"I don't care." Her voice sounded hollow. "I could have turned him out. He endangered me. Us. My family. But I let him stay."

"Malfoy will go to the Dementors," he said coldly. "As far as I'm concerned, you deserve no less."

They heard footsteps, and Ron made a sudden movement, yanking the Extendable Ears under the bedroom door just as Professor Snape opened the door and walked out into the hallway.

Hermione kept her eyes closed, leaning against the wall. All sorts of emotions were warring in her mind, and she found herself wishing for the deadness of yesterday. She could make no sense of half her feelings, as though they weren't even hers at all.

"Malfoy?" said Ron, finally.

Harry groaned. "Don't. I'm going to be sick."

"You lot," said Dudley quietly, with a look at his cousin, "clear out. _Now_."

Hermione grabbed Ron's hand and pulled him to the door. Neville and Viktor came after, followed at last by Ginny, who looked as though she didn't want to leave.

"Let him be alone, Gin," said Ron, laying his free hand on her shoulder. She shrugged irritably, but didn't push it off.

"Dudley stayed."

"Yeah, well, it's Dudley's mum who shagged Lucius Malfoy, isn't it?" he whispered, glancing over his shoulder to be sure that nobody was within earshot. "Let him alone."

"Oh you're one to give relationship advice."

"Shut it. Leave him alone."

"Shh. What's that noise?"

"She's... crying."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** A slightly shorter chapter, but this was just a really good place to end it. Emotions are running high, and they haven't even had the officialy meeting yet. Yikes! Hope to have another chapter done by tomorrow night, but I'm working lots of overtime this week and I've got a nasty cold, so it might be two or three days before the next update.

When I previously wrote Dudley, a few people complained that he seemed too intelligent. I would put forth that Lily Evans was obviously quite brilliant. I think it stands to reason that intelligence could be a family trait and that Dudley could have inherited some of it and just had it squandered by his upbringing. I haven't noticed any indication that that he and Harry went to a particularly wonderful primary school, and he spent his whole life surrounded by computer games and TV. Throw him on his own devices for a year and he might discover that he's got a brain.

As for Lucius and Petunia... it's a reach, I know, but I think it's at least distantly justifiable. As members of the Order in the middle of a war, it isn't likely that James and Lily would go publicly broadcasting information about their infant son, even before they formally went into hiding. Pettigrew could just have easily been the source of information, but that's way less dramatic and it doesn't involve Petunia, so I'm going to pretend that Lucius was spying and using her. Bear with me. She needed a deep, dark secret and a way for Snape to know about it.

Reviewers, readers, all of you: I come back throughout the day to read the things you've left for me and laugh and smile over them.You brighten things up, even when I've worked horrible, insanely long shifts at my job and I can't manage to keep my eyes open.


	25. Bad Blood Will Out

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 25: Bad Blood Will Out**

* * *

Petunia glared at him from across the room, red-eyed. He looked away, deciding that he didn't feel remorseful in the least. Let her cry and feel guilt-ridden. He'd spent most of his life doing that, and it was about time that she understood her culpability as well. He would have said all of those things long ago, if Dumbledore hadn't forbidden it.

Well, Dumbledore wasn't around anymore, and Petunia _was_, and if she was going to barge into an Order meeting and let her husband make an ass of himself, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to protect her feelings. Besides, Lily had released him, and any residual guilt he might have felt towards her sister was therefore easily dismissed. Her husband was not too stupid to realize that something had passed between him, and he had moved from pointedly ignoring everything to pointedly giving Severus dark looks whenever he thought Severus was looking.

Dursley glared at him again. Severus smirked.

"This meeting of the Order of the Phoenix will now commence," said Minerva, rising to her feet and leaning slightly on the cane that she still carried. The low background murmur of voices that had filled the room suddenly ceased, and all eyes moved to her. "Given recent events, I feel it would be expedient to dismiss with some of the usual protocol. Therefore, we will not be reading the minutes from the last meeting. They will be available after the meeting to those of you who wish to peruse them. Moving on to the first order of business, then—I yield the floor to Kingsley Shacklebolt."

He smiled in spite of himself. Since Minerva had taken over, Order meetings had assumed a new level of control and, well, _order_. Dumbledore had been content to let people shout and talk over one another. Minerva, on the other hand, insisted that things be quiet and regulated by a strict, if simple, set of rules.

"Thank you, Minerva," said Shacklebolt, rising to his feet and giving her a nod. "As you all know by now, the Jordan residence was attacked early this morning. To the best of my knowledge, the attack occurred roughly between the hours of three and four o'clock. Tim and Cecilia Jordan are dead, by means of the Killing Curse." He paused respectfully for a moment. "Their son, Lee, is in isolation at St. Mungo's. As of this morning, it is unclear whether or not he will survive."

A few people exchanged glances. The first time he'd heard the news, Severus had been so distracted by Petunia and her ridiculous family, and by the need to go and fetch Weasley a Calming Draught, that he hadn't really considered what it meant. Lee Jordan, hovering between life and death… one of his own students. It was that, more than anything else, which made him hate teaching. The knowledge that at any moment he might discover that Death Eaters had killed someone he'd spent years protecting and teaching was a constant strain on him. In his heart of hearts, he'd always rather enjoyed it when Jordan commentated at school Quidditch games, even if the boy did have an awful anti-Slytherin bias. He was dreadful at Potions, too, but he hadn't been bad in Defense at all.

He looked down, meticulously straightening his cuffs and keeping his face hidden behind the hair that fell around it, until he could compose himself again.

"Minerva, I know that the Mu—Harry's family are here on your invitation, but I wonder, is it wise for them to be present for the _whole_ meeting?" asked Shacklebolt delicately. "The details about this attack are confidential, and I would prefer not to risk them being leaked."

Minerva pursed her lips. "What do you think, Harry?"

"Me?" Harry repeated blankly.

"They are your family," she said, lifting an eyebrow. "Do you feel they can be trusted with privileged information?"

"Well…"

"I'll leave," said Petunia's son (who Severus had begun thinking of as Dursley junior). They turned to him in surprise. "No point making Harry decide. It's need-to-know, isn't it? And we don't need to. I can't speak for mum and dad." He shot them a glance and shrugged. "But as for myself… well…"

"I will not be shuffled out of this meeting like some sort of second-class citizen," grunted Dursley senior. "Not after what it took to get us here."

Severus crossed his arms, sitting up a little straighter. "Dursley," he sneered, "as far as I'm concerned, you _are_ a second-class citizen."

"Severus! You're out of line! Whatever your personal opinions on Muggles, you know the position of the Order on—"

"You misunderstand me, Minerva. This has nothing to do with whether or not he's a Muggle and everything to do with the fact that the man has no personal redeeming characteristics whatsoever."

"_Severus!_ The Dursleys are our guests at this meeting and I will thank you not to be ruder than you can help."

"We'll go," said Petunia coldly. "Send Harry out to get us when you're ready." Although the words were polite enough, her tone was icy and offended.

Minerva, in a manner very reminiscent of her predecessor, chose to ignore the tone of voice and smiled pleasantly. "Thank you so much for understanding, Mrs. Dursley. As you must see, we're all in a very delicate situation here. There are spies everywhere, after all, and one can't be too careful."

Petunia looked more offended than ever. She sniffed loudly and grasped her meatloaf of a husband by the arm, tugging him towards the door. "Come, Dudley," she snapped over her shoulder. "You aren't wanted here."

"Er, actually, I'd like it if Dudley stayed."

Minerva, to her credit, managed to minimize the disbelief in her voice. "I—are you sure, Potter?" It was a toss-up as to who looked the most surprised—Minerva, Potter, or Dursley junior.

"Yeah." The boy's chin tilted up and he looked at her with mingled defiance and uncertainty. The expression was pure Lily, and Severus found himself wanting to laugh at the memories it brought back.

"Very well, then. Dudley, you may stay, since your cousin vouches for you. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley—well, this is rather awkward. We'll send someone for you when it's appropriate. If you require anything, let Kreacher know and he'll attend to your needs."

They walked out, looking more offended than ever. Dursley junior watched them go, breathing an audible sigh of relief the moment they were through the door. His whole demeanor seemed to change, in fact, and he suddenly looked much more like Potter's cousin and much less like—well, like a pig in a wig.

"I hope that settles everything to your satisfaction, Kingsley. Can we proceed?"

"If Harry vouches for his cousin, then yes. As I said—"

He was interrupted by a loud shriek. Teddy Lupin, his hair now an eye-searing shade of green, had begun inexplicably screaming in Molly Weasley's lap. She and Ginny, who was standing directly beside her, attempted to console him, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, Andromeda stood up. Severus shivered. She really did bear an uncanny resemblance to Bellatrix. It always startled him, if he looked at her too quickly.

"I apologize," she said softly. "I'll remove my grandson."

"No," said Molly. "Let Percy do it. They've developed quite a bond, Perce and little Teddy, and they won't be seeing each other much after tonight." There was a hint of a sniffle in her voice at the end of the sentence. Andromeda frowned a bit, but she nodded and Teddy was handed off to the thin, bespectacled former Head Boy. To everyone's surprise except Molly and Ginny's, Teddy immediately stopped crying.

Shacklebolt waited until they were gone before continuing: "Tim and Cecilia were put to death by means of the Killing Curse. That, at least, seems to have been quite perfunctory. There's no evidence that they were tortured beforehand or injured in any other way."

Severus felt a hint of sensation in his stomach that he knew could swiftly become nausea. Something about the way that Shacklebolt said it made him sure that he could guess what he would hear next.

Unfortunately, he wasn't far wrong.

"Lee, on the other hand, is still alive. We believe that this is because his attacker was interrupted in the process of torturing him."

"Attacker?" said Aberforth sharply. He, too, was someone Severus couldn't look at too quickly. The eyes riveted him. Albus' eyes.

"There is no evidence of more than one," said Shacklebolt slowly. His voice was level and even, as it always was. It seemed to lend a tone of clinical detachment to the scene he described and he never faltered, even for a moment.

"In fact, there is no evidence of a struggle at all. It appears that Lee Jordan was attacked by someone he knew and recognized as a friend. Had there been more than one, I doubt that they would have fled after killing Tim and Cecilia, but Lee's attacker did. I believe that whoever it was panicked."

"Jordan was their target, then?" asked Minerva in a choked voice. The Minister—how odd, thinking of him like that—looked at her and nodded. Severus glanced at Ron and George Weasley, who were sitting side-by-side. George was white, but calm. Ron's face was visibly furious.

"Probably some sort of retribution for his work on the radio broadcast. His voice was quite easily recognizable, to anybody familiar with the family or with Hogwarts. It wouldn't be hard to discover his identity, or to find him, since he returned home after the Battle."

Shacklebolt's eyes moved to Severus for just a moment. "It is my belief that the attacker intended for Lee Jordan to be dead before he left the scene. We were readily able to recognize the use of Incarcerous, Cruciatus, and Sectumsempra. Auror Proudfoot—" he nodded to the young Auror, who had arrived only moments before the beginning of the meeting "—Tells me that St. Mungo's has since identified several more. I yield the floor to him."

Proudfoot stood up. Severus remembered him quite well. He was a short, stocky Hufflepuff, and possessed of an enormous quantity of brown, curly hair. Surprisingly good at Potions—had even managed to achieve Exceeds Expectations on his NEWT in the subject.

"According to the Healers, Jordan was subjected to a surprising range of spells, some of which were used in very unusual and surprisingly precise ways. As the Minister already mentioned, Sectumsempra was used, in this case to remove his ears." Severus caught a jerky movement out of the corner of his eye as George Weasley's hand flew to the side of his head. He winced; he'd forgotten that.

"His… his hands were removed by use of the Reductor Curse. I'm not quite sure how he—the attacker—did it. Jordan was on the floor, but there was minimal damage underneath him. The curse was very carefully targeted."

"Someone used _Reducto_ on his _hands_?" breathed Ginny Weasley, sounding horrified. Several heads turned in her direction, and she flushed, ducking her head with an embarrassed look.

"Yes," said Proudfoot grimly. He looked rather horrified himself, in fact. "And his feet, actually. His arms and legs were subjected to a Stretching Jinx, to the point of complete dislocation of all joints. And his tongue," he paused, licking his lips uncomfortably, "was attached to the roof of his mouth with what the Healers believe was some variation on a permanent sticking charm."

Once again, Severus looked to the Weasley boys. George was still white, and he looked horrified, but the Calming Draught was working to good effect. Ron was decidedly green, and Severus thought that the boy would probably vomit if there were much more to hear. Behind them, Potter was whispering furiously to his cousin, apparently explaining the meaning and effect of the spells that Proudfoot was listing. Slowly, he let his gaze wander to Granger.

Her face, too, was white, but there was no nausea and no false calm there. She seemed to have been turned to stone. One of her hands was clenched into a fist and rested on her lips. The other hand he couldn't see, for she'd wrapped her arm around herself, squeezing tightly. He was suddenly tempted to use Legilimency on her, or at least to try. He couldn't maintain eye contact across a room full of strangers, and she'd notice if he tried, but he knew that he'd picked up on her emotions involuntarily before. Perhaps he could do so intentionally, if he tried.

He forced himself to look away and focus on Proudfoot's recitation instead.

"The Healers inform us that they won't be able to un-cleave his tongue from his palate, short of literally carving it away. It's unclear whether they'd be able to re-grow it if they did so. From the nerve damage and systemic reactions he is now suffering, it's evident that he was also subjected to the Cruciatus curse multiple times, probably while petrified and silenced. His parents were unarmed, and their wands were found in the house, untouched. We believe they stumbled across the torture quite inadvertently."

He licked his lips again, a nervous habit that Severus recalled him being subject to as a student as well. "Also—there were some injuries to his torso. He suffered third-degree burns to his chest and stomach. We believe they were caused by _Flagrate_, or possibly _Incendio_, but if it was the latter, then whoever did it had to be quite talented."

"Why?" asked a voice. Severus didn't note whose it was.

"Because the burn site was very carefully limited and controlled—to form an image of the Dark Mark."

"Jesus Christ," said Dursley junior. Severus quite agreed.

0 0 0

"Jesus Christ," said Dudley. Hermione quite agreed.

"Who?" asked Ron under his breath. Hermione slapped the side of his head lightly.

"Don't be disrespectful," she hissed.

"I wasn't!"

"He's—I can't explain it right now, Ron, it would take too long." Sometimes the ignorance of pureblood wizards annoyed her hugely. She was usually able to forgive it, but something that flagrant went beyond naivete and right into ridiculous ignorance.

"Shut up!" said Ginny in an undertone. They did.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had stood up again, giving his Auror and approving nod and allowing the poor young man to return to his seat. He looked horribly shaken, and Hermione wondered if he'd known Lee personally. He looked young enough to have been around at least when Lee was a first year, although she had no clue what House he'd been in.

"The press has not yet discovered the attack, but I am in no doubt that it will get out soon. I plan to speak with _The Daily Prophet_ and _The Quibbler_ as soon as possible and give them an official statement. None of the classified details, but news of the deaths and that Jordan is in critical condition. He's to be kept under strict lock and key while we investigate. If he pulls through, whoever is responsible may try to finish the job. That's all the relevant information for now. Naturally, I'll keep the Order informed of any new developments."

"Thank you, Kingsley," said Minerva, her voice tightly controlled. "Next order of business—we've compiled a list of known Death Eaters who are still at large. Unfortunately, it isn't exhaustive, but it's plenty to be going on with for now. The thing that we have to contend with now is that those who are still in Britain will be attempting to flee. Voldemort may have fallen, but he had sympathizers across the world, and his followers _will_ find support and shelter in other countries."

Hesitantly, Ron raised his hand. Professor McGonagall offered him a tired smile. "You have a question, Ron?"

"Are they really going to find support in other countries? I mean, don't they understand? About the Death Eaters, I mean?"

"Unfortunately, not all of them _do_. In terms of governments, I don't know of any country whose Wizarding authorities supported Voldemort openly, but movements like his will always find supporters. If they can reach those supporters, it's likely that the fleeing Death Eaters will be able to disappear from sight completely and live in hiding.

"Those of you who are not currently attending school will meet with Kingsley and myself after the meeting to discuss assignments. Which brings me to the next item on our agenda—officially swearing in our new members."

Harry frowned. "Wait, what about those of us who _are_ attending school?"

"It is vital, _vital_ for you to complete NEWT-level training in your selected subjects, Potter. As far as the Order is concerned, that's top priority for all of you. Now then, if you'll all stand up and raise your wands." Hermione stole a glance at her friends. They looked proud and a little frightened, but each of them steadily held their wand aloft. She raised her own as well, hoping that her fear and self-doubt would be hidden from them.

They repeated the oath of allegiance after Professor McGonagall, swearing to serve the Head of the Order, to obey the commands they were given, and to fight against Voldemort and his followers until such time as the world was no longer under threat from them. Afterwards, there was a great deal of hand-shaking and back-patting, and many tears from Mrs. Weasley, who seemed determined to crush them all with the force of her embrace.

When everyone sat down again, she found herself sitting a little straighter. Finally, she was a bona fide member of the Order of the Phoenix. Now if only her head would stop aching, life might be something she could survive for another day.

0 0 0

While everyone else was busy crowding around the Gryffindors with praise and congratulations, Severus discreetly removed the headache potion from his robes and swallowed it. The potion took five minutes to work. When it did, blessed relief followed, and the throbbing pain behind his eyes disappeared. Years as a spy had left him with a habit of constantly checking and re-checking the configuration of rooms and the state of their inhabitants. As he took stock of his surroundings once again, he noticed vaguely that Granger suddenly seemed to sit up straighter, and a bit of the pallor left her face. The Weasley girl whispered something to her and she nearly even smiled.

"And finally," said Minerva, raising her hands to silence the Weasleys, who were still busily congratulating their son and daughter on joining the Order, "Dudley. Will you fetch your parents, please?"

The huge, hulking boy got up and lumbered towards the door. If Petunia had set out on purpose to choose the least wizard-like name she could find, Dudley Dursley seemed to be very close to an achievement of that goal. No wonder he couldn't bloody remember it. No sane person would name a child something like _Dudley_.

Dudley (he repeated the name to himself a few times) led his parents back into the room and held a chair for his mother while she seated herself. At least _one _of the brats she'd raised had something that might pass for manners.

Minerva looked at them soberly. "It is my understanding that you wish to leave our protection."

Dudley senior made an angry grumbling noise. "We wish to be released from our incarceration and allowed to return to the real world."

"Incarceration?" said Hestia testily. "You _agreed_ to this."

"Under duress!" he snarled. "And now that Lord What's-his-name is dead, I see no reason for this charade that you call 'protection' to continue."

He should have brought some headache potion for Minerva as well. She looked like she needed it. "Mr. Dursley, although Lord Voldemort has been killed—by your nephew, I might add—there is still a significant threat from those of his followers who either escaped the so-called final battle or were not present for it at all. At this point, they have nothing to lose. There is no doubt in my mind that most of them would kill you if they knew that you existed, or where to find you. Being Harry's aunt and uncle is enough of a crime in their eyes to warrant your murder even if you weren't Muggles. The only question is whether they'd torture you first, and for how long."

Petunia cringed. Her husband smiled nastily. "In that case, we are fully prepared to disown him legally and permanently. He's of age, there's no reason for us to retain any connection to him."

A murmur passed through the gathering. He shouldn't be surprised, he reminded himself. After all, the man was married to a woman who'd slept with Lucius Malfoy and, he suspected, maybe even fallen in love with him. Anybody who Petunia was willing to marry had to be nearly as twisted as she was.

Surprising that she'd never shown much interest in _him_, come to think of it.

Anger was beginning to stir in Minerva's eyes. "I don't think now is the time to speak like that, Mr. Dursley. Emotions are running high; you don't want to say things you don't mean."

"Don't you talk to me about what I do and do not mean! I have _never_ wanted any part of this business. I told Petunia at the very beginning, we should have sent the boy to an orphanage, or to live with some freak family that would deal with him and keep him away from us. The boy is of age, any supposed responsibility we had to him has clearly run out, and I want no further association with him."

The way Potter looked at his uncle indicated to Severus that the boy wasn't surprised in the slightest to hear this. He wondered how many times it had been said before. There was zero physical resemblance, but Petunia apparently had managed to find a psychological replica of Tobias Snape… the very worst kind of Muggle.

"Very well. However, it is not that simple. You may legally disown him, but blood cannot be disowned, Mr. Dursley, and your legal status will not matter to the Death Eaters."

"I'm tired of these scare tactics. We've been staying in that godforsaken house for over a year and I haven't heard so much as a whisper of a Death Eater."

Severus raised his eyebrows. "Minerva, may I speak?"

"By all means, Severus."

He stood up, using his height as much as he could to his advantage and staring at Petunia's worthless lump of a husband down the bridge of his nose. "Dursley, you're a fool."

"Severus! I didn't give you leave to speak so that you could resume your verbal abuse of Harry's uncle!"

"I am doing no such thing, Minerva. I am informing him of a cold, hard fact." He took a step closer to the Dursleys, who shrank back slightly. "For my entire adult life, I have been privy to the plans and machinations of Death Eaters. The last year was not an exception. Rest assured, if they could have found and killed you, they would have."

He paused for a moment and then allowed himself a cruel smile. "Lucius Malfoy in particular wished to pay you both a little visit." Petunia flinched again.

Dursley grunted. "I don't give a damn what this Luscious fellow thinks. What sort of a God-awful transvestite name is that, anyway?"

The question was so absurd that Severus could not answer it at first. By the time he'd regrouped from the mental image that it presented (and he did _not_ enjoy the thought of Lucius in a miniskirt), Petunia had jumped in.

"He's a Death Eater." Her voice was hard and angry—whether with Severus, Lucius, or her husband, Severus couldn't tell.

"How do _you_ know that?"

"Because I—Severus told me."

Her husband's eyes narrowed so much that they nearly disappeared into the fat that surrounded them. "Why?"

She flushed unpleasantly. "I used to know him."

"What do you mean, you used to know him? May I ask when you were forming all of these friendships with wizards, Petunia? You always gave me to believe that you'd stayed well away from those types." He'd begun using a tone of voice that Severus recognized all too well. Petunia didn't seem to hear the warning in it, or if she did, she was too angry to care. Everybody else was staring at her, dumbfounded by the revelation that she was acquainted with Lucius.

Severus glanced at Granger and her pack of friends. Apparently _not_ everyone was staring at Petunia after all. Instead, they were all looking very carefully at the floor, except for Granger herself, who was whispering furiously in Potter's ear.

"It was a long time ago, Vernon," she said testily.

"Please," interrupted Minerva gently. "This isn't the time or the place for a private discussion between husband and wife. We must decide whether or not you are to stay under our protection."

"I positively refuse," said Dursley flatly. "Furthermore, I am disowning the boy. Now. I don't imagine that you Wizarding types have any sort of formal paperwork that needs to be filled out, but rest assured that when I get back to the Mug—damn it, the _real_ world, I will legally sever all ties with him posthaste."

Minerva frowned unhappily. "Is there anything we can say to induce you to change your mind, Mr. Dursley? You are in grave danger. We cannot and will not force you to remain against your will, but—"

"No. I refuse to stay in that madhouse any longer…or in this one, for that matter. Petunia, Dudley, we're leaving. Now."

"No." Petunia's voice was so soft as to be almost unrecognizable, but it was terribly, decidedly firm. Severus couldn't remember ever having heard her speak in that tone before. Judging by the look on his face, her husband had never heard it before either.

He froze, staring at her. "What?"

"_No_, Vernon. I'm staying."

"Are you _mad_?"

"I won't disown… Harry." It seemed to cost her a great deal to say this, and she didn't appear to be happy about it in the slightest. "And I won't put Dudley in danger by leaving before they tell us it's safe."

His mouth fell open slightly. "You _are_ mad."

"No," she said waspishly. "I'm just not as stupid as you are."

"For the last time, will you come with me or not?"

"No!"

"Very well." His face grew hard. "Then I'll leave without you. Come, Dudley."

"No."

"Dudley Dursley, I am your father and you will obey me!"

"I'm staying with Harry."

Vernon Dursley, faced with a full-scale revolution amongst his family members, looked momentarily nonplussed. After a few seconds, however, he scowled angrily. "I should have known that you'd end up siding with _her_ and all these other freaks. Bad blood _will_ out, won't it, Petunia? Very well, you've clearly made your choice."

Petunia said nothing, pursing her lips in a manner very reminiscent of Minerva.

"Vernon, please," said Dedalus Diggle. "This is a mistake. Your life is at risk."

"Let him go!" Petunia burst out in a very shrill voice. "There's no point in arguing with him."

"Siding with _them_, are you?"

"I'm protecting our son!"

He glared at her. "You're a liar. I refuse to stay here any longer. Let me out!"

"You really are determined to do this, then?" asked Minerva—unnecessarily, Severus felt. The man had already made it glaringly obvious that he'd rather die than be around magic for another second.

"I am."

"We will do what we can to keep the information from leaking out, but I can make you no promises. We can make arrangements for you—"

"No. I'm leaving now, and I never want to hear from any of you people again."

Dedalus stood up, looking pained. "I'll just show you to the door then, shall I?"

"Don't you dare come any nearer to me. You're just as insane as the rest of them, Diggle, if not worse. I'll bloody well show _myself_ out. As if I couldn't find my way around London without your help!"

"Dad," said Dudley quietly. "Don't leave."

Dursley drew himself up imperiously. The effect was poor. "I am sorry that you have put me in this position, Dudley. Remember that it was by your own choice that you and I part ways."

"Get out!" shouted Petunia, suddenly jumping to her feet. "Get out and spare us from having to listen to any more of this pigheaded idiocy! Go run to your precious Margie and tell her how she was right all along about me! Go to hell, for all I care, but for God's sake, _go_!"

Dursley sputtered for a moment, but apparently he could come up with no appropriate rejoinder to that, so he merely turned on his heel and barged out, shoving Arthur Weasley aside as he did so.

"Petunia…" whispered Hestia, looking stricken.

Petunia spun around, staring wild-eyed at all of them. "Not a word from any of you! Not a word! First my sister and now my husband—if I never hear another word about magic again, it will be too soon!"

Dudley Dursley elbowed Potter out of the way and took his mother's arm. "C'mon, mum. Let's go to the kitchen and I'll make you some tea."

"I don't want tea," she said flatly.

"A sandwich, then. Let's go." Nobody spoke as Dudley led his mother from the room. As the door closed behind them, Severus thought he heard her start crying again. For an accidental second, he caught Granger's eye, and he was suddenly inundated with a rush of pity and sadness.

Bloody soft-hearted Gryffindors.

0 0 0

The meeting didn't last long after Mrs. Dursley's emotional exit. They discussed the new wards that were being arranged for Hogwarts. Proudfoot, Aberforth, Bill, Charlie, Fleur and Sturgis all gave brief progress reports on assignments that they'd been pursuing. Professor McGonagall read out a written report owled to her by two new members on assignment in France, Vega Tibb and Waldo Bagget.

Afterwards, Harry and Ron dragged her over to talk to Professor McGonagall and Minister Shacklebolt.

"I'm sorry, Potter, it's just not possible," said Shacklebolt seriously. "As Minerva explained, it is very important that you complete your training. After that, we'll be more than happy to put you on assignment, but school is your first priority right now."

Harry scowled. "We spent an entire year 'on assignment' without NEWTs, and came out right in the end."

"Yes, but you were acting under orders. You have new orders now."

"Well, I don't like them."

Professor McGonagall smiled wryly. "Perhaps you should have considered that before taking an oath to obey them."

"Harry's right though," Ron said. "We all three of us have proved that we can make it. We're not asking to leave school, but surely there's something we can do on—on weekends, or something!"

Hermione decided she'd had enough. "Ronald, weren't you listening in the meeting? People are hunting for Death Eaters all over Britain. They're being sent to other countries, even. That's not something you can do on weekends!"

"What about Christmas holidays, then?"

"Ron, drop it."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "I admire your desire to help, you three. I know it's not terribly glamorous, but I'm sure there will still be assignments in June, and if you want Kingsley to consider you for the Aurory, you'd better start demonstrating that you can follow orders now."

She looked across the room, to the spot where Professor Snape was standing, engaged in conversation with Auror Proudfoot. "Professor Snape needs to return his car to Manchester, but he's volunteered to Apparate back to Hogwarts and escort you back to the castle, first. Get your things together. You'll want to hurry if you intend to get back in time for dinner."

Hermione and Neville were the only ones who had anything to collect, and by the time she'd returned back downstairs with her knapsack, everyone else had already donned cloaks, scarves, hats and gloves.

"—Send you an owl," Harry was saying to Dudley. "When I know if Professor McGonagall will let you visit."

"That white one?"

"Oh…" Harry stiffened a little. "No. She's… well, there was a battle…"

"Oh. Sorry, Harry, I didn't know."

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "It's ok. You weren't to know. I'll send a school owl and we'll see if you can come spend Christmas at Hogwarts."

"You could spend it with mum and me."

"I'm not sure Aunt Petunia would like that."

She couldn't say what it was that alerted her to Professor Snape's presence. She just knew, suddenly, that he was in the room. She turned and, indeed, he was standing in the doorway, dressed once again in his Muggle clothes. Ron gaped, until Ginny poked him forcefully with the butt end of her wand and hissed that he was being rude. Hermione only blinked and looked away. She wasn't used to it, exactly, but the initial shock had passed.

"If you are all done gawking," he said smoothly, "it is time to return you to the school. School records indicate that you have all passed Apparition training. I will wait here until you have all successfully Disapparated. If I arrive at the Apparition point and find that any of you have left it without waiting for me to escort you, it will be detention."

0 0 0

Longbottom was the last to Disapparate, and Severus followed him immediately. In a rare show of obedience, all five students had remained exactly where they ought, waiting for him. He drew his wand and looked around cautiously, checking for any obvious signs of watchers.

"You will walk up to the castle. I will accompany you. Wands out, and go two by two. No stragglers."

Longbottom gave him a curious look. "Do you expect us to be attacked, sir?"

"What I expect or do not expect is irrelevant, Longbottom. Death Eaters will not inform you beforehand of their plans, and if someone has gone after Lee Jordan, you can rest assured that you, too, are a potential target. Even the grounds of Hogwarts are not necessarily safe, as the Battle last spring should have taught you."

They started for the castle, pairing off quickly as they walked up. Potter grabbed Ginevra Weasley none too subtly by the hand and her brother started purposefully in Miss Granger's direction. She hung back, however, and neatly sidestepped him, forcing Weasley to walk with Longbottom and Severus to walk with her. It was not an ideal arrangement. Nor was it a surprising one, he supposed.

And it _definitely_ wasn't surprising that she couldn't make it from the Apparition point to the Entrance Hall without talking.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I was just wondering, er, why did you mention blood potions last night?"

At least it was an academic question, although it was one he wasn't necessarily sure he had an answer for. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir," she seemed to hesitate. "It's not on the syllabus until the very end. I didn't expect we'd start covering them until nearly the end of the year."

"Ah." Why _had_ he begun talking about blood potions? She'd been disturbingly upset and he'd simply started talking about the first thing that came into his mind. "I merely thought you would find it interesting. Surely the material was not above your head."

"Oh. No, sir. It was just a coincidence, that's all."

"Coincidence?" He was careful not to look at her.

"It's only…" there was a note of apprehension in her voice. He wondered why. "Only I'd been thinking of them myself already, and then you brought them up."

"Indeed," he murmured repressively. She didn't say any more.

They reached the castle without further conversational mishap and he watched them disappear through the double doors with a feeling of relief. No need to see any more of her for the rest of the day. He'd had enough of Granger. In fact, he'd had enough of everyone.

But it was very obvious that tomorrow, he'd need to speak with Dumbledore about her.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Still sick. Still working overtime. Still really tired. But still writing! I win!

Reviewers, thank you so much. Your response to the last two chapters was beyond humbling. I'm running out of creative ways to tell you I appreciate you, but I do. So so so much.

Poor Lee Jordan.. I hated to do that to him, but he was just such a logical target.

As to Dudley and Harry... now that Harry's had some time to get over the shock of the fact that Dudley wants to be nice to him, I believe he'll end up latching on to Dudley the way he would with ANY potential family member who gave him the time of day. He's starved for that type of relationship, after all. And as for Dudley.. it's got to be difficult being dragged away from your home and friends and thrown into a world that's entirely alien to you, and where you're basically kept under house arrest. He's got to be relieved to see Harry, who he was starting to like anyway. I like to think they'd become friends and that Dudley could become a less awful person.


	26. A Dream to be Rued

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 26: A Dream to be Rued**

* * *

Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed and put her head in her hands. What was she thinking, asking Snape about blood potions like that? It was Gryffindor stupidity at its finest, barging in without thinking and asking questions that, if he _were_ suspicious, would surely give them all away. 

_But his surprise sounded genuine_, she thought anxiously. He'd seemed honestly curious and surprised, had seemed to fumble for a moment before he found an answer. Maybe it really was only a coincidence. On the other hand, he was an experienced spy, and had been lying successfully since before she was born. It wouldn't even start to be difficult for him to mislead her.

Something clenched in her stomach. It took a moment before she realized that it was hunger. She'd only run upstairs to deposit her extra clothes in her bedroom and change back into school robes, not to sit on her bed and agonize over something she couldn't change. Jumping up, she pulled her robes on and hurried back down the stairs to meet the boys, lugging her books along with her. They wouldn't thank her if they missed dinner on her account, although even if they did, it would hardly be difficult to get down to the kitchens and nick some dinner from the House-Elves.

It wouldn't even really be stealing, after all. The only difficult part would be getting the House-Elves to stop piling more and more food into their arms once they admitted to being hungry. Not that Harry and Ron weren't equal to it, but her appetite had still not returned in full force.

"Took you long enough," grumbled Ron as she walked into the Common Room with her knapsack, now laden with books instead of clothes. The tone was so typical, so very _Ron_, that she actually smiled at him. Sometimes if she closed her eyes, she could still pretend for a few moments that they were just plain old Harry, Ron and Hermione, best friends with a history only slightly more exciting than anyone else's in the magical world.

Only, of course, they weren't—not anymore. And when she opened her eyes, Ron was holding his hand out to her with an expectant look. When had it been decided that she would give him another chance? When had she decided to let his jealousy and his awful name-calling go without further comment?

But she had no energy to fight him, and so she hesitantly placed her hand in his, feeling her heart grow heavier the moment she felt the familiar, warm sweatiness of his palm. His hands were so soft—unexpectedly soft, for a boy's. Somehow, she always thought of male hands as being hard and well muscled, like her father's. Ron's hand ought to be callused and firm, but it wasn't. It was almost squishy. She squeezed it lightly and let go as soon as he'd helped her through the portrait hole.

"So," said Neville, once they were all seated and helping themselves to dinner. "That thing at your house was bloody brilliant, Harry."

"Yeah. Nice to finally be taken seriously."

Ginny gave a delicate sniff before slicing into a piece of roast lamb. "Don't read too much into it, Ron. The last thing we need is another Percy about, going around and giving himself airs."

Beside her, she felt Ron's body go tense. A muscle flexed in his cheek. "Shut it, Ginny," he said softly. "I'm nothing like Percy, and you know it."

Neville chewed and swallowed thoughtfully. "What does it matter even if you are, Ron? He got over himself and turned out all right in the end, didn't he?"

He didn't un-tense. His thigh was just brushing against hers and she felt it flex as he moved his feet. "That isn't the point. He still spent years being the world's biggest git."

"Which, as Ron correctly surmised, was my point," said Ginny brightly.

"I said _shut it_."

She smiled at him. "Just a cheerful public service announcement. For the good of all involved, do your best not to be an utter prat, will you?"

"You don't say that sort of thing to Neville or Harry."

"Neville and Harry aren't my brothers."

"Thank God," said Harry reverently. "I've got enough family problems to worry about without throwing that into the mix."

Hermione set her fork down and gave Harry the look of earnest seriousness that she'd spent most of her life perfecting. "I don't know, Harry. You can't be too sure, can you? Maybe we ought to save a little bit of that potion to use on Ginny." She could do a good imitation of her old schoolgirl self, so good that they didn't immediately realize that it _was_ an imitation.

It took a few seconds for them to start laughing. She smiled primly and picked up her fork again, scooping up a bite of shepherd's pie and patting Ron on the back; he appeared to have choked on a bit of carrot.

Neville lowered his voice. "When d'you think the news is going to get out?"

"Tomorrow morning, maybe? He said he'd talk to the papers as soon as he could." Harry frowned. "I wish we could go and visit."

Hermione sighed. "You know we can't, Harry, it's too dangerous."

"I know that, but you'd think they'd trust _us_ at least."

"Only that's just what Ginny was talking about, wasn't it? You can't go expecting special treatment just because you're you, Harry. It doesn't work that way for anyone else, and the minute they start getting complacent, someone's going to find a way to take advantage of it," she snapped angrily. "You should understand that by now, Harry, it's not as though you _like_ getting special treatment. At least, you didn't used to."

"Bloody hell, Hermione, that's not what I _meant_."

"Oh, isn't it, Harry?" her voice got sharper. "Are you sure? Because it seems as though you're awfully keen to take advantage of being famous in order to get what you want, in this case."

Ron nudged her. "Leave him alone, Hermione, that isn't what he meant."

"Well you'd know all about saying things you don't mean," she said nastily, getting up and sweeping her pile of still-closed books off the table. "I've got homework to finish, I'm going to the library."

0 0 0

It was getting late by the time he got back to Hogwarts. Three hours alone in the car had convinced him that he ought to speak to the Headmaster as early as possible, which meant not waiting until the following day. It was not yet so late that Minerva would have retired.

"Minerva, I need to speak to Dumbledore."

"Again? Honestly, Severus, you said you'd only evict me from my office once."

"I lied."

"Severus, if there's a matter of enough importance that you need to consult Dumbledore on it multiple times, don't you think it might be time that you shared it with me?" Minerva fixed her eyes on him with the steady, piercing gaze that had first cowed him at the age of eleven when he'd stood, dripping and miserable, waiting to be Sorted. Lily had gripped his hand so tightly that the blood stopped flowing into his fingers, but Minerva's eyed had looked at him and taken his measure immediately. It was then that he had been undone by the reality of Hogwarts, so that his heart nearly broke with the truth of it.

Things were different now, however. After dealing with Voldemort, she was child's play. "All in good time, Minerva," he said smoothly. "When the matter requires your attention, rest assured that I will alert you."

With a soft sigh, she rose from her desk, waving one hand in Dumbledore's direction. "Very well, Severus. I hope you realize how much trust I'm placing in you."

In spite of himself, he felt his shoulders tensing up. "Indeed, Minerva," he said stiffly. He was painfully aware of it, and for her to bring it up was practically an implication that she _didn't_ trust him.

"Well, you may take your time. I don't like being gone overnight like this; I'm going to patrol."

He watched the door close behind her and listened until he was sure that she was gone before he turned to the portrait of the Headmaster once again.

"Albus."

"Severus? Is that you? So sorry, I was dozing. These frames really are quite comfortable, you know." Through the half-moon spectacles, the blue eyes watched him without the slightest hint of fatigue. Dozing indeed.

He took a seat, leaning back in it slightly and looking up at his onetime mentor. "I am happy to hear it."

Albus Dumbledore pressed his fingers together, looking down at him with the thoughtful, intelligent expression that he had so often worn in life. It really was a very good portrait. "I wonder," he said, "what could it be that brings you here again? The same dilemma, I imagine?"

"Yes."

"Have I ever told you what a delightful conversationalist you are? I have always envied your talent for fitting whole paragraphs of meaning into a single syllable."

"I ought to have brought lemon drops so you could have the pleasure of cajoling me to eat one while you throw insincere comments at me and avoid the matter at hand," he said sardonically. Albus merely chuckled.

"Let us get to the matter at hand then, Severus. What do you wish to tell me?"

He looked away carefully, weighing the question. What _did_ he wish to tell Albus? So many small things had happened, but each one taken individually was insignificant. He wanted reassurance, he supposed, which of course resulted in seeking out Albus Dumbledore at the earliest possible opportunity. Pathetic.

"There have been… developments.

"I surmised that much for myself. I am also sure it is safe to assume that these developments are not to your liking and that any counter-measures you have attempted have failed."

He tightened his jaw, nodding stiffly.

"I will not insult you by hinting that perhaps you've grown lax with Occlumency. I did suggest, if you remember, that Harry's struggles in that field might be more due to the nature of his connection with Voldemort than his unwillingness to apply."

"I do not see what that has to do with—"

"It has everything to do with it."

He looked up, horrified. The Headmaster's face was relaxed into the impassive mask that he knew all too well. "Are you saying that the girl has created some kind of—of Horcrux?"

"I am not. However, there is a very important similarity between the two situations. In both cases, two human souls were joined in a very unusual way. But do not be discouraged, Severus. There is a fundamental distinction between them, which should comfort you."

His heart was pounding loudly in his ears. "I do not see this distinction."

"Tell me, what is it that differentiates Dark magic from other magic?"

He thought of his impromptu Potions lesson in the car. "Intent."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, an impressive feat for eyes fashioned entirely from paint. "Precisely."

"You are telling me that the only thing that separated Miss Granger and myself from Potter and the Dark Lord is _intent_?"

"Good heavens, no. I am thankful to be able to report that I'm quite certain your scar contains nobody's soul."

"All my fears are set at rest." He crossed his arms and stretched his legs out on the carpet, crossing them as well, at the ankle.

Albus chuckled again, maddeningly. "Slytherins always did have a monopoly on sarcasm. Ah well. We cannot all be gifted." He brushed an imaginary piece of lint off the inside edge of his frame. "You misunderstand the nature of what has happened to you. Think of it more in terms of a marriage—"

"Albus!"

"Yes, Severus, a _marriage_. There was a reason to name the enchantment as it was. You have been linked to her, not because she attempted to use your body as a cache for a portion of her soul, but because she offered up her soul in order to rescue yours. You have been joined, but Hermione could no more have made something evil of that than she could have cast _Crucio_ on you."

He scowled. "Her soul is not the only one involved. She might be a relative innocent, but what of me, Albus?"

The blue eyes widened slightly with a look of false surprise. "Do you mean to tell me that all of this stems from your worries about Hermione Granger?"

"I have discovered that I am apparently doomed to be concerned by the matters that concern her, however paltry, and this is hardly a minor problem."

"I believe that the connection could not have held if you were a danger to her."

He wanted to believe it. Oh, how he wanted to believe it. But he couldn't bring himself to believe it and risk that it might not be true, could he? "I am not so sure. Being exposed to…me…in this way cannot be a benefit to her."

Albus adjusted his spectacles carefully on the bridge of his nose. "You underestimate yourself, as usual."

"I do not."

"Be that as it may, you are both stuck where you are and so this debate, while intellectually stimulating, is pointless. Moreover, I'm sure that you know that. I suggest that you tell me what has been going on, Severus." The Headmaster looked at him so sympathetically that for a moment he could imagine that Albus Dumbledore, too, had been through this.

"Some shared dreams—hers, although I assume that if I were to have a dream of my own, she might well be aware of it. You already know about the difference in performance during her Potions lessons. And…" he curled his hand around his neck, rubbing it thoughtfully. "…There have been some powerful moments of empathy; experiencing feelings very clearly not my own, or mentioning subjects seemingly at random that I later discovered she was already thinking about. I can only assume that she's had much the same experience."

The Headmaster was silent for so long that Severus began to wonder if he'd really drifted asleep this time. Finally, he spoke: "I believe that it is time to tell her," he said gravely. "It is unfair to allow her to go through this without understanding what is happening to her."

"No." There was no way. It would be utterly unbearable, having those eyes fixed on him and _knowing_, knowing that her emotions might mirror his, that she might connect with his thoughts at any moment, that she might fall asleep and find herself in his subconscious. It was bad enough for her to do it unconsciously, but to do it and know? The very thought made him feel sick with horror.

"Severus, you have a responsibility to her."

"Albus, I cannot tell her."

Albus sighed regretfully, toying with the edge of his sleeve. "And yet, she must be told."

"I do not see that she must!" he snapped.

"Come now, you have a brilliant mind. Put it to work for a moment and imagine what it would be like to experience all that you have been experiencing, and to have no explanation for it? At the very least, it will distract from her studies. What is more likely, knowing Miss Granger, is that she will put her keen and penetrating mind to the task and come up with the answer herself. She has less extensive knowledge of magical trivia than you, Severus, but not by much, and eventually she will discover the enchantment and put two and two together. I do not think you will wish her to discover that you knew and chose to keep her in the dark."

"You give her a great deal of credit, Albus," he said hollowly.

The Headmaster smiled dimly at him. "As should you."

"I will not tell her. It is unthinkable."

"Then someone else will do it, but it _must_ be done."

He fumbled desperately for an argument. "Not yet. _Please_. Surely it can wait a little while. Until the holidays, perhaps, when she can… absorb the news, somewhere away from Hogwarts? Surely you can grant me one more month of privacy."

Albus sighed. "You must prepare yourself for the eventuality that you will be no more prepared for this a month from now than you were at the beginning of term. Even allowing you a month goes against my better judgement."

"Can't you understand?" Severus got up from his seat, forcing himself not to pace, although he could not hide his agitation. "The moment that the girl knows, my last shred of dignity is gone. Potter has already stripped most of it away, and now Granger will follow after him to rob me of the rest."

"Surely you do not misunderstand her character so completely."

"It has nothing to do with her character. Even if she told nobody, which seems unlikely given her predilection for constant chatter, _she_ would know. She is a student, Albus! How can you ask this of me?"

"It is not I who ask it. You must bow to your circumstances at some point. You may find," he added thoughtfully, "that it is not as bad as you imagine it to be. Most people welcome that sort of intimacy."

"I am not most people," he growled, "and I cannot afford intimacy."

"And yet you have it thrust upon you. What will you do with it, I wonder?"

"I will not tell her—not yet."

"It is your soul. But remember, Severus, it is also hers."

"It's late, and unlike you I do not have the luxury of sleeping at all hours of the day. Good night, Albus."

0 0 0

For the fiftieth time that night, Hermione regretted going to bed immediately after arriving at Grimmauld Place. She should have stayed up and studied. Instead, she'd lost nearly an entire weekend, between the Order and the boys. Not that it had been a complete waste. The Order meeting was—well, it was informative, definitely. As was everything they'd picked up by eavesdropping on Professor Snape and Mrs. Dursley.

She tried once again to focus on her Charms essay, but no words were coming. Instead, she thought about Lee's tongue and the permanent sticking charm that had glued it to the roof of his mouth, a cruelly appropriate punishment for someone whose offense had been one of speech. As far as she had ever read, permanent sticking charms were, well, _permanent_. If they weren't, someone would surely have found a way to remove Mrs. Black from the wall of Harry's front hallway.

Why Lee, though? There were so many other people to attack. He wasn't even a member of the Order, although the Death Eaters might not know that. She had no idea how much information Professor Snape had passed to them while posing as one of them. For all she knew, Voldemort had held a dossier on every Order member and shared it with the Death Eaters.

All the official members were so well protected, though. Unless… had Lee been part of the Order? They'd been so far out of touch, and it wasn't much of a leap from working towards Voldemort's downfall with the Weasley twins and Professor Lupin to joining the Order and fighting with more than words. For all she knew he _was _a member and she simply hadn't been informed. The idea didn't surprise her. She had only just been inducted herself, and while Professor Snape had filled her in on the important background information, he hadn't wasted time on things like an exhaustive list of their fellow members.

Either way, it seemed to her that such a brutal attack had to be personal to some degree. Most of the Death Eaters who hadn't been apprehended or killed were, as far as she knew, rather lacking in subtlety. It was the reason they weren't in the upper ranks of Voldemort's army to begin with. They would be most likely to stick with the old standbys—_Crucio_ and _Avada Kedavra_. No point wasting time with finicky little things like his tongue, or blasting away his hands using a curse that nobody had any business using on a human being.

But who knew Lee closely enough for it to be personal? Someone from school? She racked her brain for memories of Lee Jordan before his graduation. Best friends with Fred and George, pleasantly and hopelessly pursuing Angelina Johnson, or smuggling contraband into the school. It was a series of happy, fluffy memories with little of substance behind them. Lee simply hadn't struck her as the type to make many enemies, although as a Gryffindor it was only to be expected that he'd tangle with Slytherins now and again.

But he'd always been in the background of her life. George would know far better than she if anyone from school might be culpable, and she didn't think she could ask him. It had been a shock to see one of the Weasleys break down so completely. Even at Fred's funeral (she tried not to think about that), they'd maintained some semblance of composure through their grief. But George had finally lost his last shred of control in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, screaming for Lee like a tortured man, and Hermione had been frightened of him.

She looked down at her Charms essay once again. It was a bad job, she decided, rolling the parchment up and slipping it into her bag. Perhaps in the morning she'd have Ron look it over, as he and Flitwick had worked so far ahead. The thought of Ron looking over homework on her behalf was so ridiculous that she laughed out loud, and then she kept laughing, until the sounds coming out of her mouth were so hysterical that they barely sounded like laughter anymore, and Madame Pince was giving her the evil eye across the room.

Rather than be kicked out, she took up her books and left. With any luck, Ron and Harry would be asleep by the time she made it back to the Common Room and she'd be allowed to creep up to her bedroom in peace. Surely after her minor outburst in the Great Hall, they were due for another argument, but she hoped she'd be able to get a little sleep before it happened.

Ron, however, was waiting for her in the Common Room. Alone.

"Blimey," he said, yawning dramatically. "I thought you'd never be done in there, Hermione. What were you doing, memorizing the books?"

"It's not that late," she said. She eyed him warily. He didn't _seem_ angry, which was unusual these days. Perhaps he really was making an effort to be different, as he'd promised in the kitchen so much earlier that day.

"It's not, only you had such a long weekend, and with everything that happened today…" he trailed off, looking past her, into the fire. They hadn't had a chance to talk much about Lee, between being with the Order all day and nearly fighting at dinner. She sat down beside him, reaching tentatively for his hand. Instead of taking it, he draped his arm over her shoulder and drew her close.

"He'll be all right, Ron." She wasn't sure she believed it, but there was nothing else to say. It felt so strange to be there with Ron, pretending that nothing had happened. She had wanted to run away, to scream and shout at him, to stay angry and hurt. But then she'd remember what Harry had told them about his mother and Professor Snape, and her heart ached at the thought that she, too, might walk away from someone who said something stupid that he didn't mean. Ron was going through so much, and now there was even more being piled on to it. She was obligated to forgive him, wasn't she?

"I don't know that he will," said Ron softly, still looking into the fire. "Hermione," his arm tightened around her. "I love you."

Her stomach tightened uncomfortably. "What does that have to do with Lee Jordan?"

"I guess I've just been thinking, that's all. I wanted to make sure you know I feel about you. I know I've been off lately, I wish I could tell you why but it's more than I can explain." He turned his head, burying his nose in her hair and sniffing appreciatively at the faint, lingering scent of her shampoo. She forced herself not to move.

"Ron, I—"

"And I want to apologize for the way I've been talking to you. Please forgive me, Hermione. Things will change, I promise."

She slumped, allowing her head to fall onto his shoulder and rest there heavily. "How do you know?"

"I just know," he said confidently, stroking her back with his fingertips. "We're meant to be together, Hermione. Everyone expects it. My mum and dad love you, my family loves you… _I _love you. It's been so many years; we can't just throw that away because we can't keep our tempers in the middle of a war. The war won't last forever."

Every word seemed to tighten the cold, constricted feeling that had settled around her heart, until it enveloped her completely and she felt her emotions slipping away again, hiding from what would otherwise be her disgust with herself. She couldn't say no, couldn't force herself to pull away. He squeezed her gently, planting a soft, damp kiss on the top of her head.

"I'm tired, Ron," she whispered into his shoulder. He let go.

"'Course you are," he said stoutly, after a moment's pause. "It's been a long weekend. Go up to sleep Hermione. I love you."

"Good night, Ron."

"Can't you say it back to me? Please?"

Anguish. That was the word for the emotion that she was even now thrusting away from herself before it shattered her into pieces. "Don't ask me to. Not yet."

He turned away, returning his gaze to the fire. "Good night, then."

0 0 0

A harsh, cold wind blew across a hill. It was lit by dim moonlight that cast eerie shadows and gave the place a weird, surreal look. Suddenly, a noise reverberated through the air and a hooded, masked figure materialized on the hill. It was followed by several more, until they numbered seven. They gathered together uneasily, holding fast to wands and looking over their shoulders often.

"We have serious business to attend to," said a high, cruel voice. A horrible figure strode up the hill out of the mist and then walked in amongst them, his arms raised beatifically above their heads. He gazed at their masks with red, inhuman eyes, a cruel smile on his face.

"Master," whispered one of them, dropping to the ground and kissing the Dark Lord's feet with pathetic sincerity. "I didn't know. I swear to you, I did not know!"

"Silence, fool!" hissed Voldemort, drawing his wand and pointing it at the Death Eater. "You dare to speak to Lord Voldemort? You dare to touch him with your filthy hands? _Crucio_!"

The Death Eater screamed horribly, dropping Voldemort's robes as though they were on fire. He withdrew the curse after a few seconds, laughing at the prostrate form lying on the ground before him. "Do you see now what becomes of those who lie to their Lord? They will be found out and they will be punished. The Dark Lord always knows what is in the mind of his followers. It was very unwise of you to attempt to hide anything from me. _Crucio_!"

This time the curse lasted longer, long enough that the Death Eater shook even after it had passed. The screams seemed to reverberate through the air, soaking into the fog and making it terrible and frightening.

"I swear," sobbed the Death Eater, "I didn't know. I swear on my life."

"What do I care for your life?" asked Voldemort, sounding amused. He watched as the Death Eater crawled onto hands and feet and retched horribly, spilling bile onto the grass. "Your life is of no use to me if you cannot serve me as I require."

"Please," the Death Easter said, in a voice raspy from the effort of violently expelling the contents of his stomach a few moments earlier. "I can do better. I swear it to you, my Lord. I will not fail you again."

At a gesture from Voldemort, the other Death Eaters slowly began to back away, leaving their comrade prostrate on the ground before the man they called master. "Why should I spare your life?" he asked, his wand trained on the Death Eater's head. "Why should I show mercy to you, when you are useless?"

"Hogwarts," gasped the Death Eater, still cowering and sniveling on the ground. "I can get in to Hogwarts and spy for you."

The wand lowered by the smallest fraction of an inch. "How?" he sneered. "Assistant to the House-Elves, perhaps? At least they won't be bothered by your disgusting Muggle heritage."

"Potions professor," the Death Eater said hoarsely. "Interview tomorrow, in Hogsmeade. I can get you Granger, my Lord. Granger and her friends with her. Weasley and Potter will follow after her, if not as prisoners then as daring, Gryffindor rescuers, and either way they will be caught. They will be delivered into your hands, My Lord, as surely as I draw breath."

Voldemort smiled cruelly. "But that is not sure at all."

The Death Eater shuddered but did not look away. "My Lord, I swear to you, I will atone for my shortcomings. I will do everything you require. Please, my Lord." Voldemort's robes were lifted and kissed once again.

"I told you not to touch me!" said the Dark Lord in a cold and furious voice, pulling his wand and thrusting it at the Death Eater with another mad cry of "_Crucio!_"

Something shimmered in the air and things shifted oddly, the screams of the Death Eater dying away. The Dark Lord did not move, but the other Death Eaters disappeared leaving only the one, still crouched subserviently on the ground and once again kissing the hem of Voldemort's robes.

"Back so soon?" asked Voldemort coolly. "Here to tell me of yet another failure on your part, Half-blood?"

"No, my Lord," rasped the Death Eater, voice tinged with excitement now as well as fear. "I do not yet know about the position at Hogwarts, but I have learned something that will surely prove useful to you."

"I warn you, if it does not satisfy me, you will suffer far more than you did last night."

"There was a—a prophecy, Lord."

Voldemort hissed softly, his wand hand bobbing and weaving over the Death Eater's body like a snake poised to pounce. "Prophecy?"

"Concerning yourself, Lord," whispered the cringing Death Eater. "I overheard it. The old man was interviewing for the post of Divination professor as well as Potions master. Forgive me for coming to you unbidden, Master, but when I heard it, I knew I must tell you at the earliest possible moment."

"Let us have this prophecy then, and pray that I take the same view of it as you do."

"'The--the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…' there was a little more, I think, but that's all I heard. The blasted innkeeper saw me listening at the door and nearly threw me out, I couldn't tell what the rest was."

"You were discovered?"

"Dumbledore knows I heard the prophecy but I led him to believe I only heard the first word or two…nothing of importance. He still gave me the interview and promised to contact me soon about the position."

Voldemort did not speak, though his wand arm never ceased its subtle, snakelike movement.

"My—my Lord?"

"If you have lied to me," he whispered dangerously, "you will pay the price. _Legilimens_!"

The Death Eater froze under the sudden invasion, but submitted to it without any other sign of struggle.

"Give me your arm," whispered Voldemort at length.

Trembling, the Death Eater obeyed, robes falling away to reveal the ugly, black skull and snake on the left arm. Voldemort's wand pressed into the Dark Mark with a sharp stab and the Death Eater bit back a shout of pain.

Within moments, other Death Eaters were arriving once again.

"It seems that this quivering lump you see before us has proved to be less useless than I feared," he said to those assembled as they gazed at the prostrate form of their comrade. "I will find Potter after all, and when Hogwarts has been opened up to me, we will remove the unworthy from its grounds forever!"

The Death Eater bent low over Voldemort's robes once again, kissing them fervently. "I live to serve you, Master."

A well-aimed kick sent the crouching Death Eater flying, the hood and mask falling away to reveal white, slightly freckled skin and a mass of bushy hair. Her robes tore open against a sharp rock, revealing the swell of a breast beneath her shirt.

"You have my clemency for now, Severus," said Voldemort softly. "See that you make no more mistakes. I shall not be so lenient next time."

0 0 0

In the Gryffindor Tower, Hermione Granger awoke, drenched with sweat. This dream was a far cry from anything else she ever remembered having. It was already fading from her mind, but she reached for her memories of it. She'd been a Death Eater. No, not just a Death Eater, she'd been Professor Snape… before he was Professor Snape, apparently. Only that didn't make any sense at all, for if he was not yet Professor Snape, she wasn't even born, and so Voldemort couldn't be talking about using her to get to Harry. Everything was in a hopeless muddle.

'A hopeless muddle' really was the best way to describe her brain if she was so far along the path to madness that she dreamed she was Professor Snape.

0 0 0

Severus' eyes opened. For a moment, he could not breathe. His heart pounded furiously, and his limbs seemed to be tied down on the bed.

In the next moment, though, the power of movement returned to him and he flung away his blankets as though they burned him, throwing himself out of his bed and staring at it with a look of horror. An old nightmare, one he'd almost forgotten, although a few things were different. He was not _supposed_ to dream. He had trained himself out of it so very long ago, and yet here he was, dreaming.

And not only that, he was dreaming of the Dark Lord.

Something else had been wrong about that dream. He strained to remember what it was before the dream slipped away from him. He lifted his right hand and unconsciously rubbed the spot on his left arm where the Dark Mark was.

He glanced down at his left arm. That was it. The arm had been wrong.

And the hair had been wrong. And the _breasts_ had definitely been wrong, although the dream had been so vivid that he found himself touching his flat chest just to be sure.

"Merlin's beard," he whispered into the darkness. "I was _her_."

His heart sank as he realized the implications of his realization. It meant that, almost certainly, she was somewhere in the vicinity of Gryffindor Tower, wondering how she had come to dream that she was Severus Snape.

But he could not tell her.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This is the longest I've gone between updates, and I apologize. Turns out that what I thought was a mere cold was actually Strep Throat, and I've been in bed feeling miserable and too sick to write. 

Many thanks to the members of WIKTT chat who stayed up to all hours last night and kept me awake and writing so that I could finish this by.. well.. at least by morning. Hopefully I'll have chapter 27 done by tonight... tomorrow at the latest.

Reviewers.. I kiss your feet in a non Death Eater sort of way. You are wonderful.


	27. Your Intense Fragility

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.**  
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* * *

**Chapter 27: Your Intense Fragility**

* * *

He didn't go back to sleep again.

Instead, he sat in the dark, playing and re-playing the dream in his mind. He'd looked down, expecting to see his own body and seeing instead that of his student. And yet the eyes that looked were _his_—or at least, the mind that looked out of the eyes was. What had she seen? Had she dreamed all of it, along with him? Had she seen the pathetic, groveling thing that he was, so very long ago?

He watched her carefully when she walked into the Potions classroom. There were dark circles under her eyes—were they darker than they had been the day before? He couldn't tell. She always had circles under her eyes, always looked thin and stretched and tired. Somehow the realization had never hit him so powerfully before he actively began to search for evidence that she hadn't slept well.

Really, she looked as though she'd made a habit of not sleeping well for quite some time since. She crossed the classroom slowly and dropped her bag on the floor. It landed noisily, falling onto its side and spilling a couple of books onto the stone. She didn't seem to notice, already preoccupied with studying the directions he'd placed on the board. He had her brewing a very finicky potion indeed, with nearly fifty different ingredients and several charms that would need to be cast over it in the brewing process.

The thing that made it really difficult, of course, was that in order to be effective, the entire potion needed to be brewed from start to finish within the space of one hour. Once she started, there would be no room for mistakes, for there would be practically no time to correct even the smallest error. She bit her lip for just a moment and then threw herself into the job, pulling bottle after bottle from the well-stocked shelves and laying them out in the precise order she would need.

He watched as she chopped ingredients. He'd given her increasingly difficult potions and she'd risen to the challenge every time, honing her skills as she went, so that now her hands moved with a deftness that could rival even his own. It was strange, the look of determined concentration on her face, and the grace with which her hands moved. She was so ungainly in other ways, so unaware of her body and her appearance, that it seemed to him as though her hands were separate entities, not truly part of her body at all.

And, he reminded himself grimly, that might not be so far from the truth. Perhaps his bizarre sense of a disconnection between her hands and her body was not merely a product of his imagination. Perhaps some part of him had really become part of her, some talent had imprinted itself in a tangible way, much as Potter's inexplicable facility with Parseltongue.

He had, as usual, provided himself with ample busywork to pass the hour without speaking, although it seemed that avoiding conversation with her was doing little to prevent their unwelcome intimacy. He picked up his quill, glancing over at her one more time before he began to write. The first ingredient was going into the cauldron and she wore a look of intense concentration that he had never seen on one of his students before, even on her.

It was not the concentration that took his breath away, but the contentment that spread across her face at the same time. In its sudden and unexpected absence, he saw for the first time what had changed her so dramatically—the hunted, restless look in her eyes. As he watched her, he felt echoes of the pleasure she took in the brewing process, the satisfaction that filled her as the cauldron began softly simmering.

For the first time, he allowed himself to really consider the idea that Dumbledore might be right. There was, conceivably, something pleasant about this. She was lost to the world so completely that he felt sure he could speak her name aloud and she would not so much as blink. He wondered how much of that love for brewing had been innate and only waiting to be coaxed out of her, and how much of it was a result of his influence on her.

Ultimately, he supposed, it didn't matter anymore. It was only an abstract question, like the riddle of the phoenix and the flame. Once the process was set in motion, its origins were no longer discernible and, really, no longer important. He could chase the idea around in circles forever but he would never know and it would never matter. The damage, whatever it might be, was done, and done for good.

Her hands were still moving with smooth calculation, adding ingredient after ingredient, stirring with precise motions. Once in a while he caught a slight variation—she was altering the stirring directions from those he'd written down, the clever girl.

After all, if the damage was indeed done, what was the point in further denial? He ought to embrace it, if only because it would allow him to begin considering how to use it to his advantage. He tried to ignore the discomfort he felt with that idea. It seemed wrong, somehow, to take advantage of the situation, but it was the only reasonable reaction, once denial had been exhausted.

No reason to feel guilt over a perfectly reasonable reaction.

Abruptly, he turned to his grading, dipping his quill into red ink and beginning to scratch some particularly vitriolic comments in the margins of Ronald Weasley's essay on the properties of different metals in cauldron-making. For some reason, the boy's very handwriting was irritating him today.

0 0 0

She wiped her forehead, realizing for the first time that it was damp with sweat and that long locks of her hair were plastered onto her face. She'd bottled the _Ange de la Mort _potion with only seconds to go before it was spoiled, and she placed the bottle on Professor Snape's desk with a feeling of great satisfaction.

It took a moment before he looked up from the essay he was grading, glancing nonchalantly at the bottle that was filled with a potion the same color as the light from the killing curse.

"Time, Miss Granger?" he murmured, not moving to touch the bottle.

"Fifty-nine minutes and forty-five seconds precisely." She'd cast a tricky little timing charm on her notes, one that Ron had only just taught her. Apparently it was Professor Flitwick's own invention and not terribly well known. Happily, she'd forgotten about it once she began the potion, and so she hadn't been tormented with the need to watch the minutes and seconds slipping by, re-shaping themselves again and again on the surface of her parchment.

He finally reached out, picking up the bottle between thumb and forefinger and holding it at arm's length as he inspected it. "You are quite sure?"

"Positive, sir." Light caught the bottle and it glowed with a sickly green that reminded her of the Battle. She turned her head away, closing her eyes before it could remind her any more—

"_Harry!" she shrieked. Where had he gone? When had he left? He'd run off with that bottle of Professor Snape's memories, presumably to Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve. A familiar round face became visible as she rounded another corner. She dropped her voice to a whisper, unsure of who else might be lurking nearby and unwilling to give Neville away. Risking her own life was one thing. Risking Neville's was another. "Neville! Where's Harry?"_

"_He didn't find you?"_

"_No! Neville, did you see him? What did he say?"_

"_Neville! Hermione!" shouted a new voice from down the hallway. Colin Creevey was trotting towards them, wand out, his face shining with the same excited hero-worship that it always seemed to do, although now his cheeks and forehead were streaked with blood and grime._

"Avada Kedavra!"_ yelled a harsh voice from somewhere. Green light illuminated the hallway for a moment and Colin stopped short, crumpling to the ground, his mouth still open, in the process of forming words they would never hear. _

_Hermione stared, barely even noticing when Neville jerked her aside and covered her with his own body, sending a Stunner at whoever it was that had killed Colin._

"_Hermione," Neville whispered, shaking her shoulders gently. "Hermione, we've got to get to the Great Hall. Hermione…Hermione!"_

"Miss Granger? Hermione!"

She opened her eyes, staring at Professor Snape—who had, unless she was going mad, just called her by her first name.

"I… sir?"

He frowned at her. "Could you not hear me?"

She felt a sudden confusion, and felt blood rushing to her cheeks. Had he been talking to her? She'd looked at that horrible greenish potion and her mind had wandered… "I'm sorry, sir," she said uncomfortably. "I—I guess I couldn't."

"Sit down, Miss Granger," he said brusquely, rising from his seat and circling the desk. She sat, obeying by instinct. "You will tell me what just happened."

"Nothing happened," she whispered, stricken. "I just got… distracted."

He raised one eyebrow. "Distracted?"

"The color of the potion—" she hesitated, closing her eyes before they darted over to the bottle again "—It reminded me."

One hand seized her arm tightly, and her eyes flew open again. He was leaning over her, gripping her arm and giving her a look that left her feeling surprised that he hadn't begun to shake her. "Did you see anything?" he whispered, his voice harsh.

"Y-yes…sort of?" He was frightening her, looming over her so that all she could see was blackness, broken only by the jarring pallor of his face.

"What did you see, Miss Granger?" He really did shake her now, or perhaps his arm only jerked unintentionally. "_What did you see?_"

Tears filled her eyes, burning hot, and then began to slide down her cheeks. "The Battle… Hogwarts," she choked, looking away from him, hiding herself from those burning, piercing eyes. "Colin… C-Creevey..."

He let her go as suddenly as he'd seized her, an odd look of relief passing his face. "Has this happened to you before?"

She managed to nod, reaching up to rub her arm where he'd grabbed. Her skin throbbed at each point his fingers had touched, digging deeply enough into her flesh to leave bruises, she was sure, even through her thick winter robes. "All summer," she whispered, trying to forget it as soon as she'd made the admission.

He bent over the desk, picking up his quill and hastily scrawling a note on a scrap of spare parchment, folding it in two and pressing it into her palm. "Go to Madame Pomfrey, girl. You are in no condition to attend your next class, and if you have been experiencing these sorts of interruptions, you ought to have told someone before now."

She stood up, clutching the parchment in her hand. "I'm fine, sir, really, I can go to my classes—"

"No. You will go to the Hospital Wing. That is an order, Miss Granger, and I will deduct House points if you delay any longer."

0 0 0

She wasn't at dinner—whether because she was still in the Hospital Wing or because she'd simply had no appetite, he didn't know. He certainly wasn't going to make any effort to find out, either. Madame Pomfrey would sort the girl out in due time, and he had no duty to her beyond assuring that she was attended to.

It had taken him nearly a minute to rouse her from wherever her mind had gone. She was simply not _there_ anymore, reliving some moment from her past, triggered by Merlin knew what. Once he realized what had happened, he'd been seized once again with that terrible fear of discovery that he felt so often around her, and all he could think was that the girl had somehow tapped in to one of his own awful memories. He didn't know if that could happen, exactly, but if she could slip into his dreams and inhabit them, share them, twist them until they became one another within them, she might well be able to snatch away his memories as well.

But then she had dissolved into tears beneath him and he'd understood. Merlin, how many of those deaths had the girl personally witnessed?

The potion, of course, was perfect. _Ange de la Mort_, the Angel of Death—it had been misnamed, really, with typical French romanticism. He touched his pocket, feeling the outline of the small bottle through the fabric. It was actually a healing potion, one that could snatch a person out of the very jaws of death, in certain circumstances. But in other circumstances, it was lethal. It was rarely used, except as a last resort.

Either way, he didn't mind having a little on hand.

"—the Yule Ball, Severus?" asked Slughorn loudly from his left.

"I'm sorry?" he replied, turning to look at his rotund colleague and wondering how much he'd missed while he was lost in thought.

"I asked if Minerva had cornered you to discuss the Yule Ball yet, Severus. Are you feeling all right? You look a bit off, if you don't mind me saying. Perhaps you ought to take a bit of Pepper-Up. You don't want to come down with something, what with all the festivities coming up so soon." He chuckled merrily, helping himself to seconds of everything within reach.

"She has not," he answered stiffly. She would soon, though, and he would be forced yet again to subject himself to festivities in which he had no interest whatsoever. Christmas had never been a particularly happy memory for him. He'd asked Dumbledore for a month, but the end of term was only three weeks away, and he'd probably need to tell her before then, the way things were going.

Yes, he needed to tell her, damn it all to hell. There was no way to get around it. Perhaps by working together they might find a way to minimize the effects of the enchantment. The only real questions were _how_ to tell her and _when_ to tell her. For almost the first time in his life, he found himself wishing that the holidays would arrive sooner. He really would prefer for her to find out without feeling the immediate need to cease attending his lessons.

Slughorn continued to natter on about the Yule Ball and other preparations for holidays. Severus ignored him. If nothing else, his long-cultivated persona allowed him to spend a great deal of time lost in thought without worrying that people might be surprised by his inattention.

0 0 0

"Hermione?" Harry's voice filtered in to her consciousness. That was odd, she thought—she was in bed, and Harry wasn't supposed to be able to get into her bedroom. What was he doing there?

"Snape said you were here," he continued, reaching out to squeeze her hand. Ah yes, Professor Snape had sent her to the Hospital Wing. No wonder Harry was there. She wasn't in her own bed at all. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Yes, she was clearly in the Hospital Wing.

"'Time is it?" she asked sleepily, managing a feeble return squeeze of Harry's hand.

"Dinner's over. Madame Pomfrey says you've been asleep all day. What happened?"

What had happened? She furrowed her brow, trying to remember, but her thoughts were so fuzzy that it was terribly difficult. Professor Snape told her to go to the hospital wing, so she went. But _why_? Did she get injured during Defense? No, that wouldn't make sense, Harry would have been there for it. It must have been Potions, then. Maybe she'd made a mistake. Maybe something had exploded.

Only that didn't make sense either, because if an explosion had injured her, he'd hardly have sent her walking up to the Hospital Wing alone.

"I—don't remember," she finally admitted, frowning. That wasn't good. She ought to remember. "Professor Snape didn't say?"

Harry shrugged. "It's Snape, Hermione. Why would he say?"

"Oh." That was probably a good point, she decided. Harry leaned over her and laid his hand across her arm, patting it gently. His fingers touched a bruise and she froze instantly. Professor Snape had grabbed her there.

"Hermione?" He pulled his hand away sharply, looking puzzled and concerned that his touch could do that to her. "What's wrong?"

Why had he grabbed her? Was he going to attack her? No, that didn't make sense, he wasn't really a Death Eater, no matter how much he'd looked like one when he'd leaned over her so menacingly. What had _happened_? She struggled to remember.

_A flash of green light, and Colin's eager voice, echoing down the decimated halls of the school, lingering in her ears long after death had silenced him. Professor Snape, saying her name; her _first_ name. _Why had he done that? Had she been so far beyond reach? Where had she gone?

Madame Pomfrey walked into view, smiling gently at her and holding a large bottle and an empty cup. "Awake finally, dear? How are you feeling?"

"She seems a bit muddled," said Harry anxiously.

"A normal side effect of the potion I gave her this morning, Mr. Potter, not to worry. She'll soon be feeling like herself again."

Hermione closed her eyes, leaning back into her pillow and taking a few slow, deep breaths. Each one seemed to clear her mind a little more, and she relaxed slightly with the knowledge that her befuddlement was due to a potion and not some breakdown on her part.

Madame Pomfrey smiled, drawing up a chair beside the bed and taking a seat, setting the potion and cup on the table beside the bed. "You see? She's looking better by the moment. Feeling all right, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded, attempting a smile. "Much better, thanks."

Harry looked relieved. "Ron will be thrilled. He's been so worried about you, wouldn't shut up about it in class--Snape took thirty points by the end of Defense and he barely noticed."

Oh. Ron. She looked around, half expecting him to materialize behind Harry, who seemed to notice her look. "He's not here," he said, rather apologetically. "He was, though. Ginny came in and pulled him away, said she needed to talk to him about something. He wanted me to tell you he was here," he finished, somewhat lamely.

"Thanks, Harry." He _would_ want to be sure she knew he was there.

"And now, Mr. Potter, I think it is time for you to return to your Common Room. Miss Granger needs her sleep, but you can expect to see her at breakfast."

"Oh no," said Hermione quickly, struggling to sit up. "I'm fine, I'm sure I'm fine. I don't need to stay overnight."

Madame Pomfrey gave her a look that might have been pitying. "It will be easier to convince me of that when you are able to sit up without assistance. You will see her tomorrow morning, Potter. Say good night and be on your way."

Harry looked mutinous, but he stood up anyway. "Good night, Hermione. I'll see you at breakfast, yeah?"

She glanced at the matron, but it was clear from her expression that there was no way Hermione would be allowed to leave that night. "Yeah, Harry. See you at breakfast. Thanks for coming and sitting with me." She smiled, squeezing his hand before letting him go and watching him walk to the doors.

Neither of them said anything until Harry was gone, and then Madame Pomfrey gently laid her hand atop Hermione's. "Now then," she said gently, "suppose you tell me what it was that brought you here in such a state."

"Professor Snape told me to."

The older witch smiled dryly. "Yes, I read the note. He seemed to be under the impression that you were experiencing flashbacks to previous traumatic experiences. By the time you got here, you were so far out of touch that I could barely get you to speak to me. Do you remember?"

She thought back. If she tried hard, she did remember--vaguely. She nodded.

"Was he correct?"

She bit her lip. This wasn't something she wanted to be discussing with anybody. She lowered her eyes, studying the blankets that covered her legs. "I did have an odd experience earlier today, but it was a one-time occurrence. I just haven't been sleeping well."

"Nightmares?"

Very carefully, she kept her face expressionless. "Yes."

Madame Pomfrey's eyes bored into her, but she didn't press. "I see. Well, I'm going to give you some Dreamless Sleep, and that will take care of the problem at least for tonight. I do want you to know that if at any time in the future you have a similar experience, the Hospital Wing is always open to you."

She was suddenly very tired, and she wished Madame Pomfrey would just go away and let her sleep. "Thank you, Madame Pomfrey," she said, stifling a yawn. She was tired enough that she didn't think she needed a potion to help her sleep, but she swallowed it obediently and by the time she woke up next morning, she didn't remember anything beyond the dull clink of the cup on the table as Madame Pomfrey set it down and tucked the blankets around her.

0 0 0

Severus climbed into the willow tree, creeping into the little room and sitting on the floor. He'd nearly lost all control with the poor girl in his sudden panic. He didn't want her stumbling across some of the things in his mind, especially not unprepared. He had long since trained himself out of his intense childhood desire to please others, but years of teaching had left him with an equally strong desire to protect those in his charge, if only because it was required of him if he wished to say that his was a job done well. It would do her no favors to delve into his psyche unawares.

And that meant protecting Miss Granger. He wondered if he was truly self-sacrificing enough to do this, not that he had a choice. He imagined that he could still sense a hint of her presence in the room along with his own--and with Lily's.

But perhaps he could wait, just a little while longer. It didn't seem prudent to tell her too soon, any more than it seemed prudent to tell her too late. Timing would be key, then, and he still felt it would be best to let it wait until she was ready to leave for holidays.

If only fate would agree to play no more nasty tricks on him.

0 0 0

It was a few days before she really felt like herself again. Ron flitted around her anxiously, doing his best to fulfill his promise to change. Professor Snape quizzed her extensively about the nature of the potion she'd brewed on Monday before grudgingly giving her an O and setting her a new, even more complicated one to complete. He'd apparently decided to ignore anything unusual that had happened, and she decided she was just fine with that.

On Friday, Ron and Harry came and found her in the library while she was writing one of the endless litany of essays that Professor Snape demanded she complete. In the last few weeks, he'd gotten more demanding than ever, increasing the difficulty of the potions and the detail that he required of her when she completed his essay assignments.

"Hello," said Ron, sliding into the chair beside her. "What're you writing?"

"Potions essay." She didn't stop writing.

Harry cocked his head. "You didn't finish it last night?"

"That was last night's essay. This is a different one."

"How many essays does he make you _write_?"

She paused, looking down at the parchment and feeling dull and fatigued. "Four or five a week, lately. One for every major concept we cover."

"You're not even seeing him four or five times a week!"

With a shrug, she cast a drying charm on the ink, watching as it set itself indelibly into the parchment. "You know Professor Snape. He's a good teacher. Very thorough."

Ron made a face. "Thorough I'll grant you, but a good teacher?"

"He is in Defense, at least," said Harry reasonably. "Anyway, Hermione, we didn't come to ask you about Potions, you know."

She chuckled. "I'm shocked."

"I wanted to know--" he hesitated, his face going a bit red "--If you'd like to come and spend Christmas at Grimmauld Place."

Carefully, she set her quill down, giving Harry her full attention. "I thought you were going to spend it at the Burrow, for some reason." She furrowed her brow. Why had she thought that? Come to think of it, none of them had discussed Christmas plans, although the holiday was only just over two weeks ago. She'd only assumed it, because he _always_ spent Christmas there or at school.

His face was guarded, but there was an uneasy, insecure excitement in his eyes that reminded her how much it must mean to him to be having Christmas at Grimmauld Place for the first time. He was beginning to truly make it his home--and about time.

She smiled widely. "I'd _love_ to, Harry! Thanks so much for inviting me. My mum and dad are still... well, you know all about that. It'll be so much nicer having Christmas at your house than having it at school."

"What's the Burrow, then, chopped liver?" grumbled Ron. She started to reply but he gave her a half-grin. "S'alright, he already invited me, and Ginny will be coming by in the afternoon, probably with mum, dad and the rest of them in tow."

"Er, I hope you won't mind, but I've invited the Dursleys as well, Hermione. Uncle Vernon hasn't been in touch with them and it didn't seem right to be having my own Christmas and not give them a chance to come."

"Oh, Harry, I think that's _splendid_ of you!" She jumped up from her chair and gave him an enthusiastic hug. "I don't mind at all, although I'm not sure your aunt will feel the same way about you inviting us."

Harry gave Ron an apprehensive glance and patted her back lightly before she let go. "They'll just have to deal with it, though, won't they?" said Ron with a nonchalant shrug. "Harry can have Christmas with who he wants, and it's not like his aunt is a stranger to spending time with wizards."

Hermione and Harry both grimaced. "Don't remind me, Ron," he said. "I'm trying to pretend it didn't happen."

Ron grinned. "Sorry, mate. Put that homework away, Hermione. It's Friday night, you should be doing something fun."

"You've already talked me into going to Hogsmeade tomorrow--" she began crossly. He took her hands, pulling her into his arms and kissing her forehead. His lips were wet and a little sticky.

"C'mon," he said wheedlingly. "You look like you're almost done with it anyway, and I thought maybe we could go visit Hagrid. We've barely seen him this term."

She smiled a bit. "That _does_ sound nice. I'll tell you what, I've got another inch to write on this essay. Let me finish it up and then I'll come met you. You know I won't really enjoy myself if it's not done."

"Fine, fine." He took her hand in his--warm, sweaty, and squishy. She did her best not to cringe. "We'll see you soon, then." With a flourish, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Flashing her a rakish wink and grin, he left the library with Harry. She wiped her hand on her robes.

0 0 0

As the bushy-haired witch settled back into her chair, drawing parchment and quill to herself once more, a tall, slim wizard emerged from the shadow of a bookshelf, watching her intently. She lowered her head over her work, oblivious to the figure behind her as he fingered his wand, looking as though he was tempted to turn it on her.

Instead, he sheathed it and crept up behind her until they were nearly touching. He seemed to be holding his breath, for the only sounds that could be heard were those that her quill made as she wrote, neatly and methodically. Occasionally she glanced at a textbook that was propped up in front of her.

Slowly, painstakingly he lifted his hands, holding them a quarter-inch above her shoulders and letting them hover there for a moment before gradually moving them down, following the curves of her arms without ever touching them...

...until his hands were around her wrists, squeezing tightly, and his chest was suddenly pressed into her back. He turned his head, whispering hotly into her ear:

"Granger."

She dropped her quill as the blood drained from her face, but she did not scream. Her eyes moved to the desk at the far end of the library, where Madame Pince's elbow could just be seen.

"Good girl," he whispered, pressing himself still closer against her.

"Get away from me, Malfoy," she whispered angrily, her hands balling into fists.

"Or you'll do what, Granger? Scream? Madame Pince won't like that, and I'd be gone by the time she made it over here. Fancy another trip to the hospital wing? They'll send you if you start talking about being touched by people who aren't there."

"Awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?" The color was beginning to return to her cheeks. Malfoy laughed softly, caressing her arm with his thumb with a mocking sort of tenderness.

"I think I've got reason to be," he breathed, flicking his tongue against her earlobe, "don't you agree?"

She jerked her head away from his, but he followed immediately, his voice turning to a growl. "I'm watching you, _Hermione_. One of these days you're going to think it's safe, and you're going to be alone someplace you shouldn't, and when you turn around, I'll be waiting for you."

"Bugger off, Malfoy." Her tone was angry, but it couldn't hide her disgusted, fearful shudder.

"And if you breathe a word to anyone, I'll make sure you regret it for a very, very long time, Granger. That's a promise," he smirked, letting go of her wrists and sliding his hands up her arms until they gripped her shoulders. One index finger lifted and stroked slowly down the side of her neck. "And you already know I keep my promises."

She jerked her shoulders angrily, reaching up to push his hands off of her, but he was already gone, slipping away between the bookshelves so that he was lost to her sight.

Very carefully, she gathered up each item that sat on the table, tucking them carefully and methodically into her bag. She slid her chair into place at the table and walked through the library with her face neutral and her head held high.

0 0 0

"Yeh've been working too hard, Hermione. Yer white as a ghost," said Hagrid, setting a cake before her.

"He's right," said Ron, peering at her worriedly. "Are you feeling well?"

She picked up the cake, looking down at it impassively. "Just tired." She broke a crumb off the edge of the cake and put it in her mouth. It was as disgusting as it had looked. She swallowed it.

Hagrid nodded. "Ar, it's tha' time o' year. Don' overwork yerself. Got holidays comin' up an' all, wanna be able to enjoy 'em."

Ron took her by the arm. "Thanks for everything, Hagrid, but I think we'd better get her back to the Common Room. She needs some sleep."

She jerked her arm out of his hand. "I don't need you to tell me when I can and cannot sleep, Ronald!"

He held up his hands, taking a step back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Only you should see yourself, Hermione, you look terrible."

"He's right," agreed Harry. "Come on, it's getting late anyway. We'll see you soon, Hagrid."

She was silent as they trudged through the frost-edged leaves and up to the castle. She had nothing to say anymore. Briefly, she thought about going to the Hospital Wing--but no, there was nothing wrong with her. She was only tired, and a little frightened. Nothing that a good night's sleep wouldn't clear up.

It wasn't until she was alone in her bed and had cast a silencing charm around herself that she started to cry.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Don't worry, y'all.. she'll find out what's going on soon enough. :)

Reviewers.. love and kisses to all of you! You are wonderful. Extra-special thanks to BroomClosetRavenclaw for letting me bounce ideas off of her even though it meant she heard some spoilers. You have her to thank for the fact that I'm posting this update tonight and not tomorrow afternoon.


	28. Unforgivable Behavior

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

WARNING: This chapter contains some non-consensual unpleasantness of a somewhat sexual nature. If this is likely to bother you, proceed with caution.

* * *

**Chapter 28: Unforgivable Behavior**

* * *

Unlike Hogwarts, the town of Hogsmeade still bore signs of all that had happened to it during its occupation by Death Eaters. Some of the smaller shops were still closed, and the houses all looked run-down and tired. Many of them had scorch marks from spells gone awry. 

But the Three Broomsticks was still warm and inviting, and Honeydukes was full of the familiar strange sights and smells. Hermione hovered close to Ron and Harry, following them through the shop without much interest. She would have preferred to remain at Hogwarts, possibly catching up on sleep, but they'd insisted, and she finally gave in to the temptation to go and do something normal.

Fingering a bag of Chocolate Popping Peanuts, she watched Ron and Harry from across Honeydukes. They were laughing, pointing out the window at something she couldn't see. It was appropriate, she thought. They felt so far away that sometimes she forgot what it had been like when they were really close.

Not that they didn't still spend almost all of their free time together, or confide in one another, but it didn't mean anything to her anymore. She began reading the packaging on the Peanuts, wondering how Ron would like them for Christmas. Although, something told her he'd be giving her more than sweets this year, and that he'd probably expect the same from her. She supposed the time really was past when she could just buy Ron and Harry some Every Flavor Beans or a talking organizer for Christmas. They'd been through so much together, and not even Ron and Harry were children anymore, no matter how often they still seemed to act like it.

She wandered between the shelves, occasionally brushing her fingers against something, enjoying the smell of chocolate and sugar that filled the air. Ron slid up behind her, hooking her arm in his and drawing her close.

"Hermione," he whispered into her hair. It was snowing out, and the snowflakes had settled on her head and caused a minor explosion. There was no use trying to keep it pulled back and smooth, in that sort of weather.

He took her by surprise, and she yelped, struggling for a moment to get away from him before she realized who it was. "Ron! Don't sneak up on me like that. You scared me!" She hit at him before she thought about it, her palm connecting with his arm so hard that it stung for several seconds afterwards.

Abashed, he let go of her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be cross, Ron. I was only startled, that's all." She took his arm again, patting it in a conciliatory sort of way.

He didn't look comforted. "I only wanted to tell you," he said, "that you look lovely. I like your hair that way." He touched it with a fingertip.

She blushed, frowning. "You mean bushy and out of control?"

"No, I mean what I said. It's lovely."

Why, oh why was she so cold with him? He was wonderful, he really was, and he looked at her with such anxious warmth in his eyes, waiting, hoping for her to reciprocate. She thought of the kiss that they'd shared during the Battle and for a moment she desperately longed to throw herself at him again with equal fervor. But she couldn't. Something had changed, and she was beginning to be afraid the change was permanent.

"Thanks, Ron," she mumbled, turning away from him and becoming deeply interested in a bright green sugar quill that reminded her unpleasantly of Rita Skeeter's. He moved up behind her, wrapping both arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Reckon it tastes as awful as it looks?" he asked, as she picked up the quill to inspect it more closely. His chest was very warm on her back, but she could feel the chill from his hands seeping into her stomach through her robes. He'd neglected to wear gloves, and in spite of a half-hour inside, his fingers were still red and cold from the walk in to town.

She smiled faintly. "Probably."

"Ron! Hermione!" Harry's voice drifted through the shelves from the vicinity of the doorway. "Where'd you get off to?"

Taking the opportunity to break away from Ron, she hurried around the corner to join Harry. "Here we are. All finished, Harry?"

In answer, Harry hefted a small bag that he'd stuffed full of sweets. "Unless you or Ron have something to buy, I'm ready to head over to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer."

"Sounds good to me, mate," Ron said, once again looming up behind her. "You buying anything, Hermione?"

She glanced briefly at a bin full of Toothflossing Stringmints. "No, let's go. A butterbeer sounds really nice."

The walk from Honeydukes to the Three Broomsticks was short, but they were all red-cheeked and puffing by the time they were there. It was bitterly cold, and a harsh wind was whipping around the buildings, driving the frigid air directly into Hermione's bones and leaving her shivering. Snow was still falling, and by the time Ron was reaching forward to open the door for her, her hair had become even wilder through the combination of damp and wind.

"Ron! Harry! Hermione!" called Neville, trotting up to them, his nose and cheeks bright red and shining from the cold. "We were just going over to the Hog's Head to visit with Aberforth, if you wanted to join us. Luna and Ginny are there already—I'm surprised you weren't with her, Harry."

"Oh," said Harry. "No, Ginny walked down with Luna, we were going to meet up a bit later at Madam Puddifoot's."

"You _were_?" asked Ron, looking rather nauseated and giving Hermione a look telling her that _he_, at least, did not see its appeal. She was thankful for that. The only thing worse than Ron pawing at her while they browsed for sweets would be actually sitting down for tea in that deranged Valentine card of a shop.

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "It was her idea."

"Right," said Neville. "It's cold, and we can talk about your plans for the rest of the afternoon once we're inside somewhere. Going to join us, or no?"

Harry looked dubious, and Hermione wondered if he wanted to avoid seeing Aberforth. Although the Dumbledore brothers weren't twins by any stretch of the imagination, there were some rather uncanny similarities between them. She couldn't bear to look into his eyes and she imagined that Harry felt the same. Ron, however, was enthusiastic.

"Let's go, Harry!" He let go of the door and took Hermione's arm once again. They walked rather faster this time, anxious to get out of the cold.

The Hog's Head had not changed dramatically since the last time Hermione had been in it. It was grimy and seedy-looking, and it reeked of cheap tobacco and stale alcohol and, disturbingly, goats. Luna and Ginny were already seated, drinking from still-dusty bottles of butterbeer and chatting about classes.

"Oi! Aberforth!" shouted Neville. Dumbledore's brother turned around and peered at them through his glasses, watching as they dusted snow from their robes and as Hermione attempted to make her hair at least slightly more presentable.

"Longbottom," he said, rather gruffly. "Potter, Weasley." He never stopped polishing the grimy glass that he held in one hand, but he nodded courteously. "Miss Granger."

"How's business, then?" Neville settled himself on a barstool. Hermione looked at the one beside him, which seemed to be stained with something questionable that she wasn't willing to inspect too closely, and decided to remain standing.

"Same as ever, Longbottom, only now I'm being bothered by Hogwarts students far more often than I like." He set the glass down on the counter, looking at them. "What'll it be?"

"Butterbeer for Hermione and me," said Ron promptly, placing a neat stack of coins on the table. Aberforth pulled the bottles out from under the counter and Ron took them, passing one to Hermione, who accepted it without a word.

"Butterbeer for me too," said Neville. "How about you, Harry?"

"Same." He put his money down on the table, doing his best not to look directly into Aberforth's face.

When they all had their butterbeer, they joined Luna and Ginny, Ron scooting his chair closer to Hermione's to make a little extra room.

"My father's just sent me the latest edition of _The Quibbler_," said Luna, pulling it from her bag and setting it on the table. "Lee Jordan's been attacked."

"We know," said Harry softly, pulling the paper over so that he could look at it. "We heard."

She blinked slowly. "You've been going to Order meetings."

"Yeah," said Neville. "I'm surprised McGonagall didn't invite you, too."

"Oh, she did, only I couldn't go last weekend, I promised to help Professor Flitwick grade his homework."

Ron took a pull of his butterbeer. "For some reason, I always forget you're in Ravenclaw, Luna," he said, shaking his head. She smiled brightly at him.

"Everyone does," she said cheerfully. "I can't think why."

The door opened, letting in a blast of frigid air, and Dean Thomas hurried in, shutting the door again as quickly as he could. "S'colder than Bellatrix Lestrange's tits out there," he gasped, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Got something hot to drink?"

Aberforth grimaced and busied himself in producing a mug filled with something that produced copious amounts of steam. Dean paid for it and glanced down into the cup, then apparently decided he didn't want to inspect it too closely. Ginny scooted her chair closer to Harry's with a pointed look and Dean drew up a seat beside Luna.

He set his mug down when he noticed _The Quibbler_. "Says Minister for Magic: Muggle Sympathizer's Family Massacred," he read. "What's all this? What's happened?"

"Lee Jordan," said Ron. "Got attacked last weekend."

Dean winced, taking a sip of his drink. Hermione thought it was yet another mark of the changes wrought on them all in the last year that he accepted the news so calmly. Once, they would have been so shocked. Now it was merely a matter for a wince and a nod, for anyone not personally attached to the victim.

"Did anybody make it out alive?" he asked, with forced casualness. Harry flipped open the paper, scanning it as though he didn't already know the answer to the question.

"Lee's in St. Mungo's. His parents are dead."

"Does it say anything in there about what his prognosis is, Harry?" asked Ron, his voice sounding oddly strained. Hermione gave his hand a squeeze under the table. However much she might loathe his more romantic attentions, he was still one of her dearest friends, after all.

That question took Harry a little longer to answer. Hermione watched his eyes flicker back and forth as he read through the article. "Yeah. They're saying he's got a good chance of making it now." He leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief that was echoed by everyone else around the table.

"How long, d'you think, until it's over?" asked Neville quietly, playing distractedly with his bottlecap.

Harry shrugged. "However long it takes to round them all up. The Order's not going to stop until it's really finished. Who knows how long that will be, though?"

Hermione shivered. There was a draft coming in from under the door and she was directly in its path. Ron slid his arm around her, rubbing her back. She was simultaneously grateful for the warmth and immensely irritated by his touch. He had a casual possessiveness that set her teeth on edge, as though nothing could shake him from the conviction that she was meant to be his and his alone.

She stood up. "I'm just going to slip over to Dervish and Banges," she said, improvising quickly. "I've got some Christmas shopping to do while you all have Ron and Harry distracted. I'll meet up with you later." She dropped a perfunctory kiss on Ron's cheek to head him off before he tried for more, and then fairly fled out the door.

Snow was still falling, and had begun to cling thickly to branches and the eaves and windowsills of houses and shops. If it kept up, Hogsmeade and Hogwarts would be well covered by morning. She closed the door carefully behind her and set off towards Dervish and Banges. She didn't really have much in mind to buy, but anything was better than staying at that table, alone in the midst of her closest friends.

She was nearly there when it happened. Someone tackled her and they went flying sideways into an alley, where she fell hard against a wall. Her breath was knocked out of her chest and she gasped and spluttered for breath. The someone, whoever it was, pressed up against her. When she opened her eyes and looked through the slowly gathering twilight she saw Draco Malfoy, his face mostly obscured beneath the hood of a thick green cloak with silver clasps.

"I warned you," he panted, pinning her roughly into the wall with his body. "I told you I'd be watching you. You stupid little mudblood, did you think I was _joking_?"

She drew a deep breath. The cold burned her throat and lungs, but she ignored it, screaming as loudly as she could. The snow seemed to muffle the noise, though, and he laughed.

"D'you think I'm stupid as well as funny, Granger? Nobody can hear you, I made sure of that already."

"Get off me, Malfoy!" He'd left her hands free and she pushed him with her left while her right dug frantically in her robes for her wand. What had Professor Snape said? They ought to expect to be attacked at any time. She _knew_ Draco was after her—what had she been thinking, running off alone just because Ron was being annoying and she was out of sorts?

He merely laughed when she tried to push her. He grabbed her wrist with one hand and leaned on her with all of his body weight, his other hand beginning to wander down to her hips and his mouth pressed up against her ear.

"I haven't forgotten, Hermione," he growled, caressing her name with a sickening tenderness. "And I don't believe that you have, either. Did you sneak out on your own because you _wanted_ me to find you? Did you _miss_ me, Hermione?"

Every time he said her name, she shuddered violently. It was an obscenity on his lips, a hundred times more foul than merely calling her a mudblood.

Last night, they'd been in the library, and there had been other people about—the formidable Madame Pince not least among them. Now, however, they were in an alley with a silencing charm and they were alone. She couldn't move. He was bigger than she was, and stronger than she was, but she could just barely touch the handle of her wand with her fingertips and if she could only move her hand another millimeter or so, she would have the advantage over him.

She waited, tossing her head and struggling to keep him from kissing her. He ran his tongue over her cheek, leaving it wet and slimy. She tried to bite his tongue and he clapped one hand over her mouth, snarling furiously. The moment he moved and she could wiggle her arm down just a _little_ more, she grabbed her wand, holding onto it for dear life.

Her mouth was covered. Without stopping to consider, she jabbed her wand into his thigh, thinking with all her might the first nonverbal spell that came into her mind.

And then she thanked God for Professor Snape when Draco flipped upside down, suspended in midair by his ankle, his robes hanging comically below him. If he didn't look so dangerously angry, she could have laughed.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," she said, surprising herself with the cold fury in her voice. She kept her wand trained on him, letting his body drop into the snow. "If you ever touch me again," she whispered fiercely, taking a step closer to him, "I'll kill you. And if I don't, then Harry and Ron will."

He grunted, obviously straining against the spell that bound him. She smiled thinly. "So much for Inter-House cooperation, I'd say. Just remember, Malfoy, all it takes is one word from me to Harry for him to denounce you as a Death Eater. We saw you in the Battle. You never changed sides. You've got one more chance to shape up and start acting like a decent human being before I make it my personal mission in life to send you to Azkaban."

With one foot, she pushed him over so that he lay on his back instead of his side. "I'm going to let you go, and I'm going to walk out of this alley, and you're going to wait ten minutes and you're going to go the other way. And if you come near me again, I'll make sure you regret it."

With another jab of her wand, she released the spell that was holding him. He grabbed his own wand, jumping to his feet and sticking it in her face angrily.

"I warned you, Granger. You know what's going to happen to you now, don't you?"

She laughed bitterly. "I do know what's going to happen now, Malfoy: You're going to feel very stupid. You kept me quiet two years ago because if I didn't, you'd send your father after my parents. Well now your father's in Azkaban, and my parents are long gone out of the country and you don't know where. You've got nothing to hold over my head anymore."

He smirked. "Oh I don't know if that's true. I'm not sure you _will_ tell Potter. You haven't told him yet, after all. If you really wanted me gone, you'd tell him now instead of giving me one more chance to _behave_"

Her hand moved so that the tip of her wand touched his throat. He tensed, but didn't move, except to inch his own wand closer to her as well. "I believe in giving people second chances," she said quietly. Her heart was pounding horribly as fear and adrenaline began to affect her. If her wand wasn't braced against Malfoy's neck, she was sure it would be shaking uncontrollably.

"Or maybe," he said poisonously, his eyes moving lustfully down her body, "you're ashamed. Maybe you really enjoyed it. Maybe you won't tell them because you don't want them to know what happened. Tell the truth, Granger, do you really want Potter and Weasley to find out how loudly you screamed when I—"

"_SILENCIO!_ You sodding _bastard_," she snarled, so angry that she didn't even notice the tears streaming down her cheeks. "_Crucio!_" her voice was high and shrill, though it only traveled a few inches before the snow and his spell muffled it. He collapsed silently, his body twitching horribly and his wand falling from his hand. She kept her wand trained on him, watching his body flail and shudder, until suddenly it dawned on her what she was _doing_.

She gagged and barely managed to stumble even a few feet away from him before she doubled over and was violently sick.

0 0 0

Once again, Severus found himself standing in the office of the Headmistress, needing to talk about Hermione Granger. He grimaced unhappily. It was galling to come to her, galling to have to ask for her advice, but she was a woman and he was painfully bad at dealing with women who weren't insane Death Eaters (although he had a private suspicion that all of them were, deep inside). More than that, she was a Gryffindor, and she knew the girl well enough that her advice might actually be something worth seeking.

"Severus," she said, rising from her seat and conjuring a chair for him. "To what do I owe this unexpected delight?"

"You may dispense with the pleasantries, Minerva," he said, taking the chair and sitting in it stiffly, resting his hands on his knees. "I need to speak with—"

"I haven't the time to allow you private access to Dumbledore tonight, Severus," she interrupted. I've got a great many things to do."

He frowned repressively. "In fact, Minerva, it was not Dumbledore I needed to speak with."

Her face was unreadable. "Ah. Will you have a drink, then? Maybe a biscuit?"

"Nothing, thank you." Looking around the room, he sniffed rather disdainfully. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her draw herself up, and a flash of annoyance crossed her face ever so subtly. Good. She was easier to manage when she was defensive.

"Let's get on with it then," she said irritably. "What do you want?"

"I wish to discuss—a student."

Something about her demeanor changed indefinably. His frown deepened as he attempted to discern what it was. "I see," she murmured. "The same student you have been consulting with Dumbledore about, perhaps?"

"As you say."

She had a cup of tea sitting on her desk and she lifted it carefully from the saucer, bringing it to her lips and taking a delicate sip. Her eyes never left his face. "I'm glad you've decided to confide in me," she said guardedly as she returned the cup to the saucer.

"I am afraid I have no choice."

He glanced at her again, just in time to see her tight-lipped smile. "It is a relief to know that you are merely desperate. I was worried you might have gone mad."

"Witty as ever, Minerva, but this is a serious matter."

"I'm sure it is, Severus. Perhaps you ought to begin explaining it to me."

He hesitated. It really was almost unbearably vexing to come to this—a Slytherin crawling to a Gryffindor and asking for advice in what was essentially a matter of subtlety and subterfuge. Naturally she _would_ force him to come out bluntly with the explanation.

"You are, of course, aware of the circumstances surrounding my injury and subsequent recovery." He looked down at his hands, studying them thoughtfully as he spoke. Anything to avoid looking her in the face and seeing her reaction when she heard the truth—Severus Snape, tied eternally to her precious favorite student. "What you are not aware of is that there were… unusual circumstances involved."

He heard her shift slightly in her seat, and registered the slight clink of her teacup as she lifted it from the saucer once again.

Severus forced himself to take a breath. She was a Gryffindor. He would talk to her like a Gryffindor, then, and out with it at once. At the very least, it would save time. "I assume that you are sufficiently well-educated to know something of the _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_, Minerva?"

There was a rewarding clatter as her hand trembled. One corner of his mouth turned up a fraction. In his peripheral vision, he saw her siphoning spilled tea off her desk with her wand, and he looked up, lifting one eyebrow questioningly.

"Continue, please," she said in a choked voice.

"It _seems_," he murmured in the same voice he might have used to discuss a slightly unusual finding in a Potions experiment, "that Hermione Granger was rather… intimately…involved in my recovery."

There was a soft hiss as she drew in a breath. "Severus—" she said warningly.

"When I learned of her attendance at my bedside and Poppy's opinion that she played a role in my recovery, I immediately thought of the enchantment, although initially I dismissed it. I have since done what I can to disprove the theory but I am afraid that it seems to be quite true."

"I don't understand," she said slowly. "You barely know one another."

He carefully pulled a bit of dust off his sleeve and brushed it from his hands, sending it floating towards the fireplace. "Indeed."

"Do you know how it could have happened?"

Severus watched her face carefully. Something was just slightly off about her. He'd expected anger, possibly even shouting. But she was merely sitting there—a little tense, to be sure, but surprisingly calm. Had she guessed? Had they been _that_ obviously changed? Or, he wondered suddenly, had Dumbledore told her?

"I do not," he said at length. That, too, cost him something. But there was nothing for it. He needed her advice.

She opened her tin of biscuits carefully, removing one and breaking it in half. One half went into her mouth, and the other she placed on the edge of her saucer. They sat in silence while she chewed and swallowed.

"Why are you bringing this to me now?"

Of all the things she could have said, that was far more reasonable than he'd expected. It threw him off for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I would appreciate your advice on the matter."

Her mouth twitched. "Finding her that difficult to handle, Severus?"

He scowled. "Hardly, Minerva. However—the girl does not know. My preference would be for her to stay ignorant of it, but the… _effects_ of the enchantment are such that it might be preferable for her to be aware of them."

She stared at him. "Are you asking_ me_ to tell her?"

He spent a few seconds imagining that. What would Miss Granger say if the headmistress approached her, sat her down and told her that she'd inadvertently forged a link between her soul and his? Would it be better or worse, coming from Minerva?

"I am not asking you to tell her," he finally said. "But she must be told and I am uncertain of how to go about it. It is a delicate matter, I do not feel that Miss Granger and I are closely enough acquainted to make such a discussion comfortable or productive for either of us."

"Severus, you're a Slytherin. Surely you can finesse your way through any conversation?"

He ignored the mocking tone, looking into the fire moodily. "I daresay that I can, but as this is a conversation I would intensely prefer to avoid altogether, perhaps you understand my reticence."

"I believe it would be best if you were the one to tell her, Severus. You know more about the enchantment than I do, without a doubt, and you are more aware of the effects that both of you may be experiencing."

"I…_had_ hoped," he said very slowly, "that perhaps it might wait for another two weeks or so."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Until the holidays? Why?"

"I thought she might prefer to come to terms with the information while she is away from school."

"And away from you, perhaps?"

He met her eyes unhappily, shrugging. "Perhaps."

"I understand your reasoning, Severus" He waited for the 'but' that would surely follow it, but it never came. "Given that there _are_ only two weeks left in the term, I think it is permissible to withhold the information just a little longer. Are you sure she won't discover it for herself? She's very intelligent, and very curious. If anything unusual is going on between the two of you, it's only a matter of time before she'll notice and begin looking for answers."

"I am not _sure_ that she will not," he said stiffly. "But it is my hope that end of term activities will keep her sufficiently distracted. I have set difficult examinations both in Defense and in her Potions tutoring, as I'm sure the other professors have done in their classes. As a prefect, she will also be expected to assist in the preparations for the Yule Ball."

Minerva touched one fingertip to the rim of her teacup. "Poppy informs me that you sent Hermione to the hospital wing yesterday."

"She was overwrought. She needed a strong calming draught and a good night's sleep."

"You have followed up with Poppy, I assume?"

"I did not think it was necessary. She knows how to do her job, and Miss Granger is resilient. Were there any serious problem, you would have been informed of it by now."

"Yes, I suppose I would. Well, Severus, I cannot say I am happy with this turn of events, but you have always demonstrated the greatest discretion and propriety where personal relationships with your students are concerned. You understand, of course, that I will continue to hold you to the same standards as all the other faculty and staff at this school and that if I hear even a rumor of any inappropriate behavior—"

"Minerva!" He gave her a look of deepest disgust. "Please, do not insult me by mentioning it. I am well aware of the rules and have no intention for _anything_ to change between Miss Granger and myself."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Severus. And don't interrupt me, if you please. I know enough about this enchantment to know that you _can't_ promise me that things will be unchanged. Promise me that you will continue to act as honorably as you always have in the past, and I will be satisfied."

"Very well, Minerva. You have my promise, although I am insulted that you felt a need to ask for it."

She gave him a tired smile. "There are things that need to be asked, even when one already knows the answers. Rest assured, if I did not trust you, I'd withdraw her from your tutelage immediately."

"I don't suppose you'd consider doing it anyway."

The smile finally reached her eyes, which twinkled with amusement in a way that he found disturbingly reminiscent of Dumbledore. "No, Severus."

0 0 0

Hermione waited until the water was scalding hot before she got into the bath. Her skin tingled uncomfortably, stung from the heat, and she felt slightly nauseated, but she left it. Reaching for a new bar of soap, she began to scrub herself clean—and scrub, and scrub, and scrub.

An hour later, she'd used up all the soap. Reluctantly, she let the water rinse her clean and then drained it, stepping out of the tub and wrapping herself in a towel. The heat left her shaky and slightly dizzy.

She dried herself off, doing her best not to look at her body. Once she'd changed into clean pajamas, she crawled into her bed and dragged the blankets up over her head.

She still felt dirty.

0 0 0

Eileen Prince Snape had only one magical heirloom to leave her son: a small and very battered pocket watch. It was quite old, and told not only the time but also the seasons, the alignment of stars and planets, and the rise and fall of the tides. She did not, however, give it to him on his seventeenth birthday. It came to him when she died.

He carried it in his front pocket, without a chain. It was this watch that he now took out and opened. It read three o'clock in the morning.

With a sigh, Severus buried his head in his hands. He was exhausted, but there was work to be done. The downside to increasing the workload of his students was that it increased his own workload as well, and there were seven classes' worth of papers to grade, as well as continued work for the Order compiling dossiers. And then there was Hermione Granger. It was ridiculous to think he could go without sleep indefinitely to avoid sharing his dreams with her, but at least for tonight, he would attempt it.

Time passed slowly, marked only by the faint noise made by his quill and the steadily growing pile of finished grading. Two weeks left until he told her his—_their_ secret. The idea of a shared secret between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger made his skin crawl. It implied a sort of companionship that was most distasteful.

To be truthful, he decided, placing another piece of parchment on the 'finished' pile, he would need the time apart just as badly as she would after the great revelation had been made. The only thing he really doubted was whether he'd be able to look her in the face even after several weeks apart over the holiday. He felt sure, though, that if he could only get over his own embarrassment and revulsion, he could use the situation to his advantage. He'd had several months in which to get used to the idea, after all, and she hadn't.

The next piece of parchment bore Ronald Weasley's name. His lip curled. What would Weasley think if he discovered their bond? He was volatile enough lately even without the knowledge that his intended shared a secret soul connection with their most hated professor. For a moment, he felt some regret on the girl's behalf. As far as Severus was concerned, it was entirely her fault, but it was also clear that she didn't do it on purpose. One could argue that it meant she didn't deserve to suffer for it more any more than was strictly necessary.

The Weasleys were a bit of a puzzle to him of late. Yes, they'd lost a family member, but months had gone by and it seemed to him that they'd all grown worse, instead of better. He suspected something else was going on, although when he tried to formulate any theories on what it might be, he came up short.

With one last emphatically written criticism at the bottom of the parchment, he passed Weasley's work to the other pile. Grading finished, he turned to Order work instead.

The latest news from Vega Tibb was that the group of Death Eaters she'd been trailing in France had relocated to Australia. He'd been expecting that, really. Most Death Eaters disliked foreigners as much as they disliked Muggles, and they'd feel most at home in English-speaking countries. The Dark Lord had periodically spoken of Australia, for it had a large contingent of pureblood wizards who were very supportive of his movement.

Severus felt privately that if they knew much about what the Dark Lord's so-called 'movement' had really entailed, they might change their minds, as many of the English purebloods had done when Voldemort began showing his true colors. Still, since they _were_ so far removed from all the killing and violence that had gone on in Britain, they might well be prevailed upon to hide Death Eaters who were seeking sanctuary from the Aurors and the Order, out of ignorance if nothing else.

She'd owled Minerva an encoded list of positive identifications made before the Death Eaters had escaped them, and once it was decoded, Minerva had passed it on to him. He took the list out now, scanning it and checking it mentally against his list of personal acquaintances.

There were four names. The first three he knew only by reputation. They were insignificant, very low in the Dark Lord'' hierarchy. At the last one, though, he set the parchment down slowly, unwilling to even touch the surface on which the name was written. Damien Wilkes—Death Eater, Slytherin, and former school friend. Damien had been as close to Severus as any of his school acquaintances were, with the exception of Lily, who left them all far behind. At one point in his life, Severus would have considered Damien a true friend.

And then Lily had died, and Damien had been killed by Aurors, or so they all thought. It had been a rather nasty shock to discover, when Voldemort finally believed it was safe to reveal the information, that Wilkes hadn't died at all. Years in hiding had done him no good. On the contrary, he seemed to have gone a bit mad. He'd reminded Severus of Sirius Black, who at least had the excuse of a stint in Azkaban to explain his wild-eyed ravings. Wilkes was nearly unrecognizable, whether because time had wrought dramatic changes in him or because it had wrought dramatic changes in Severus—he wasn't sure which. Perhaps it was both.

In the last year, Wilkes had proved himself to be dangerous and unstable. He'd been responsible for several Muggle killings and several more murders of wizards, most of which had been quietly hushed up by the _Prophet_. If he weren't quite sure that Wilkes was in France (well, Australia now) Severus would have suspected him as the culprit for the attack on Lee Jordan.

That, however, was another mystery to him. Jordan was an Order member, but he was relatively insignificant, and had been almost completely uninvolved since the Battle of Hogwarts. He'd sustained some minor injuries and had gone home to stay with his parents, first grieving the loss of his best friend and then preoccupied with running Weasley's Wizard Wheezes while George Weasley took a prolonged leave of absence.

Severus suspected that the attack was personal, but he knew of no formally initiated Death Eaters who knew Jordan well enough for that, except perhaps for Marcus Flint. But Flint was in Azkaban, under lock and key, which ruled him out.

He shuffled his papers, tidying his desk and standing up. His back cracked loudly and he winced. He'd been sitting in the same position for so long in the chilly office that he'd become horribly stiff. He didn't know how Dumbledore and Minerva did it. He did not look forward to the day when he started to become old.

Azkaban was yet another unpleasant matter demanding his attention. He walked out of his office, locking and warding the door behind him before he set off on a patrol of the corridors. He had yet to intervene on Narcissa Malfoy's behalf, and if he went to the prison to visit Narcissa, he would need to call on Lucius as well.

He found himself wishing that there really _were_ Dementors still in Azkaban, poised to suck Lucius Malfoy's soul from his body forever. The mental image had been a pleasing one when he'd flung it at Petunia, but Kingsley Shacklebolt was either too squeamish or too noble to use them—he didn't really know or care which it was, though he suspected the latter.

But Narcissa was another matter. He liked to think that they had been friends. He'd been flattered when she came to beg him for his help with Draco, flattered that a woman in her position was willing to trust him as completely as she did. That, more than anything else, indicated to him that there was some level of good feeling between them that did not extend merely to the polite sense of fraternity that existed between all the Death Eaters. If Draco's fears were well founded, she would not last much longer in prison, even without the presence of the Dementors to hasten her decline.

If only giving succor to Narcissa did not mean doing a favor for Draco and Lucius. Draco put on a good front, but Severus suspected that he'd changed very little, and it would be so typical of a Malfoy to escape condemnation and even win a few accolades for himself, all while secretly harboring the same Dark tendencies as he'd ever had. He would need to keep a close watch on the boy. Perhaps he was not entirely out of reach. One never knew who could be reformed at the last minute.

If he thought leaving Narcissa to rot in Azkaban would motivate her son to truly change his allegiance, Severus would do so without a second thought. The more he considered the matter, the less he believed that Draco had really changed. Oh, he might be unwilling to join with Death Eaters anymore, that was true; the fall of the Malfoys from Voldemort's grace had given the boy a chance to see exactly how unpleasant their cohorts could be. But not all Dark wizards were Death Eaters, and Malfoys had been practitioners of Dark magic since long before Tom Marvolo Riddle had been born.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he grew convinced that Draco was putting on an act—a talent which his father had cultivated in him from the day of his birth.

And unbeknownst to him, as he prowled the lower floors of the school, Hermione Granger lay awake in her bed, thinking very much the same thing.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: For some reason, it took me FOREVER to finish the latter half of this chapter. I could blame this on the fact that I'm still pretty ill, but that would be a lie. It was writer's block, plain and simple. 

However, I will shortly be getting to much more interesting things, and I have a feeling that updates will come a little faster once I do.

Thank you to everyone who wrote reviews on the last chapter, as usual. To those of you who asked, I am well aware that it is inconsistent with canon for Severus to have mentioned Hermione, Harry and Ron to Voldemort before his appointment as Potions Master at Hogwarts. It was a dream, and therefore it was intended to be both garbled and surreal, as real dreams so often are.

ALSO.. we're approaching 1000 reviews. Tell you what, if you're reviewer number 1000 and you're not afraid to give me your mailing address, I'll send you a prize.


	29. Gryffindor in Possession

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations. 

* * *

**Chapter 29: Gryffindor in Possession**

* * *

Practically the only good thing that Hermione could find to say about the week that followed was that it kept her too busy to think about things. Professor Snape appeared to have made it his mission in life to assure his students that there still existed untold levels of professorial sadism which he had not yet personally achieved. He spent Monday lecturing about NEWTs--which, in spite of still being months away, already hovered over them ominously. He then set them thirty inches ("Thirty!" Ron complained bitterly over lunch, at a loss for anything more eloquent to say about it) on advanced defensive spells, to be turned in by Wednesday.

By contrast, Potions was nearly a pleasant experience. There, at least, he maintained his customary silence. If anything, the silence deepened. He did not so much as look up when she entered the room, or when she placed her finished potion on his desk. She had taken to modifying her recipes so dramatically that every single time, she was sure he'd finally be goaded into making a comment--but he never was.

In fact, with the number of creative leaps she'd been taking, she was rather surprised that she hadn't yet caused any serious explosions or even botched potions. It was almost disappointing that she strayed so far from the rules and yet the only results she had to show for it were perfect marks and a resolutely silent professor.

Professor McGonagall, too, had developed a sudden mania for assigning homework. Although she'd given her lower-level classes to other Professors to teach at the beginning of the year, she had retained the sixth and seventh year classes. She, too, began to set incredibly long essays and an unprecedented amount of homework.

The rest of the Professors seemed to pick up on the sudden change, and started muttering about NEWTs in their lectures, although the volume of homework for their classes remained steady. Hermione was grateful for that. Between Potions, Defense and Transfiguration, she wasn't at all sure that she could cope with extra work from any other sources.

In addition to schoolwork, Professor McGonagall had taken to cornering her and giving her lists of things to do in preparation for the Yule Ball. By Thursday, it was so bad that Hermione was seriously considering asking Harry for the loan of his Invisibility Cloak, so that she could walk the halls without running the risk of being accosted by the Headmistress.

One of the few other benefits to the hugely increased workload was that Hermione was not the only person suffering under it. Ginny's temper had no opportunities to flare up, and Draco Malfoy seemed to have disappeared almost completely, outside of classes. She assumed that he was holed up in the dungeons somewhere, studying and struggling with inches upon inches of writing, just as she was.

It even affected Ron, who was still perennially uninterested in homework, although Charms had become an exception to that rule. He no longer accosted her in the Common Room of an evening, unless it was to ask for help with homework. At the very most, all that he did was gaze at her occasionally with a wistful, slightly bewildered expression, as though he were asking the fates why they had suddenly conspired to keep the happy couple apart.

If she hadn't been so bloody busy, she would have downright enjoyed it.

The other benefit, of course, was that not only was she too busy to think during the day, she was too tired to lie awake and brood at night. She still had nightmares, but they were vague and fleeting, and she usually couldn't even remember the details by the time she was finished with breakfast.

But the few moments of reflection that she did have were haunted with disturbing images--Fred, falling to the ground with empty eyes, Draco, screaming silently under the torment she inflicted on him, Death Eaters with Dark Marks, gathered in a graveyard. As the week passed, it became a blessing to be able to bury herself in schoolwork. Things still came easily enough when she tried, but her self-confidence had been shattered and she worked harder than ever, always incapable of convincing herself that she knew the material for sure.

0 0 0

Severus spent the week watching her. He allowed himself only a few hours of sleep each night, anxious to avoid dreams that might give her any more hints of their connection. If he could only stretch it out for the last two weeks, he could break the news to her and then escape from the look of horror and disgust that would surely come into her face the moment she knew.

He understood his own psyche well enough that he didn't bother deluding himself into thinking that he didn't care what she thought. He might have no personal interest in the girl, but neither did he have any interest in subjecting himself yet again to the knowledge that he was hated and despised by yet another Gryffindor.

He kept silent around her as much as he could and avoided even so much as making eye contact. Outside of classes, he kept carefully away, shutting himself into the dungeons or rambling through the Forbidden Forest in search of Potions ingredients. He refused to call on her in Defense. By the time he realized that he'd started to be squeamish about even touching the parchment on which she'd written her homework assignments, he decided he was in danger of becoming superstitious. She was only a girl, after all. Nothing to be afraid of.

After that, he let himself pay a little more attention, although he took care not to let her know it. There was something off about her--something wrong. It niggled in the back of his mind, like the scent of oil that was just beginning to go rancid. He found himself stealing glances at her as she worked on her Potions, searching for answers in her face, but they weren't there.

He even thought about using Legilimency to determine whatever it was that had changed in her. For the first time, he sympathized with Potter's desire to keep his connection open to the Dark Lord's mind. The knowledge that there was something more lingering just outside of his reach tortured him. It took all of his discipline to stay away and to keep it from constantly occupying his mind. If it was really important, it would hold and he could find out later. If it wasn't, there could be no reason to compromise the secret--yet.

0 0 0

Friday was Quidditch, and the first chance that Hermione had to rest. Harry and Ron, thankfully, had been so occupied with homework that even Quidditch discussions had fallen by the wayside. As a result, it was the last game of the term that was the first to take her interest in even a minor way, because she hadn't already been bored to tears by game plans and pep talks.

She found a seat beside Neville, who was so bundled up that she had to check for the Head Boy badge to be sure it was him. The layers of jumpers beneath his cloaks had returned him to the round shape the Neville from their youth (and good heavens, when had she begun thinking of it as 'their youth'?).

"Did you bring it?" mumbled Neville through chattering teeth.

She pulled a small jam jar filled with blue flames out of her robes, passing it over to him. "I don't know what you want it for, when you could just cast a simple warming charm."

He gave her a pitying look over the top of his muffler. "That's not the point, though, is it? It's fun to do things the Muggle way sometimes."

"Neville!" said Seamus, jostling them both as he squeezed past and settled into the seat at Neville's left hand, looking curiously at the jar. "I don't think doing things the Muggle way involves jars full of blue fire."

Neville's eyes crinkled and Hermione assumed he was grinning beneath his scarves. "Well, you can't get too authentic, can you?"

Seamus snorted, putting his feet up on the railing and looking thoroughly comfortable, and much less bundled. "You just couldn't cast the charm, could you?"

"I could too. I am Head Boy, you know."

"Not because of your grades, you're not."

"Don't make me take house points, Finnegan."

Hermione giggled. "Give it up, Neville, you're never going to make it sound threatening."

"I really could cast the charm, if I wanted to."

"I know you could," she said comfortingly, and then cast the charm on herself, snuggling into her seat as a cozy warmth made its way up her toes and all the way into the ends of her hair. "Where's Luna?"

Neville shrugged, but Seamus leaned forward to look at her. "She's coming. Dean said she'd meet us here, but I think she might be late. Apparently they got a bit--er--behind on homework last night."

His grin looked a bit strained. Hermione filed the moment away in her head as potentially useful social information and then turned her attention to the Quidditch Pitch, where the House teams had assembled.

Harry and Draco had been reinstated as Seekers upon their return to school, and Ron had resumed playing as well, leaving Ginny to be Keeper and instead clutching a large bat. After the first few games, Hermione had decided that he made a far better Beater than he'd ever been a Keeper. Crabbe and Goyle, of course, were no longer on the Slytherin team, and Hermione didn't recognize their replacements. They looked about the same, anyway, so she doubted there would be a significant difference.

She watched Ginny, who was resting her broom in the crook of her elbow as she reached up to tie back a few strands of hair that the wind had whipped into her eyes. The redhead was chatting with Dean Thomas and Andrew Kirke (who apparently had made it back on to the team, possibly due to the fact that he'd got significantly taller and filled out quite a bit). As Madam Hooch walked onto the pitch, everyone straddled their brooms, preparing to jump off as soon as they could.

Harry shot Draco a dirty look and Hermione's eyes followed to his face before she could stop them. He was sneering, muttering something that was, no doubt, yet another stuck-up aspersion on Harry's family and birth. Distracted by sudden nausea, she failed to notice Madam Hooch's whistle, or the jab of her wand as she opened the chest of balls.

Dennis Creevey's voice startled her as it suddenly boomed through the stands, magically amplified. "They're off! Gryffindor in possession, Dean Thomas passes to Demelza Robins and--ohh, that was a nasty hit by that Bludger. Slytherin has the Quaffle, Harper passes to Selwyn, and it's intercepted! Well done, Dean! Of course, Slytherin's at a disadvantage this year, having lost so many team members..."

There was an unmistakably bitter note in the last sentence, and Hermione winced.

"Bit cold, isn't it?" said a dreamy voice beside her as Luna Lovegood settled down to watch the game, her hands buried in a muff made of some sort of fur that Hermione had never seen before.

"A bit, yeah," said Neville, his teeth still chattering.

"Couldn't you cast a warming charm, Neville?" asked Luna innocently.

"Oh he could," said Seamus with a grin, "only he wanted to do it the Muggle way, which is why he's got a jam jar full of magical fire."

"How interesting," said Luna, peering over at the jar at the blue flames. "Is that grindylow fire?"

"Er--" Neville shot Hermione a look, obviously asking whether it was possible for grindylows to breathe or otherwise fire in any way. "No. Hermione conjured it."

"Oh, good job, Hermione!"

"--Robins intercepts, passes to Thomas--Thomas dodges the Bludger. Well done, Dean! And here he goes, he's--Dean Thomas scores! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

Everyone cheered. Seamus pulled a packet of Fizzing Whizbees from his pocket and passed them out. Far above them, Harry and Malfoy circled the pitch, squinting through the clouds in hopes of seeing the Snitch. It was a cold, overcast afternoon, and the air smelled of snow. Every now and then a few flakes blew down from the sky, whirling around their heads in the breeze.

"Slytherin in possession now, Selwyn's got it, she's heading right for Weasley--she shoots--and that's a spectacular save by Ginny Weasley! She could play for the Harpies, that one, way she flies."

"Hermione," whispered Seamus, under the pretext of fishing about on the floor for his wand, which he'd mysteriously dropped. "Don't look, but Snape's staring right at you. Did you do something wrong?"

She froze in place. "What?" she hissed out of the side of her mouth. "Are you sure it's me he's looking at?" Were her robes torn or something? She shifted, checking to see if anything felt wrong. But it didn't.

Before she could casually turn around and accidentally-on-purpose steal a glimpse at Professor Snape, something happened. There was a shout from somewhere in the stands, and a few arms pointed into the sky.

"He's seen it!" breathed Neville, leaning back to get a better view. Indeed, Harry and Draco both had stopped flying, their heads turned in the same direction. When they dove, it seemed to be as one, and if Hermione hadn't known far better she could have believed that they'd choreographed it in advance, so perfectly did they mirror one another. They swooped through the air, robes flying out behind them and flapping wildly in the wind—sometimes Harry led, sometimes Draco led, though they always stayed neck and neck. Hermione held her breath as she watched them. She had learned to fly, but she'd never learned to enjoy it the way that Harry did. He was too high up for her to really see, but she imagined that he was grinning as he flew, weaving in and out of Draco's path.

Draco, for his part, had his head down so far that it was almost touching his broomstick. His cloak obscured most of the broom, so that his body appeared to be crouched on nothingness and flying through the air of its own accord. The thought reminded her very unpleasantly of Voldemort and the attack that they'd sustained when they removed Harry from Privet Drive.

They dove sharply. The Snitch was invisible against the bright white of the sky, but Hermione could imagine it, fluttering down swiftly towards the ground. They were coming closer and closer, not only descending but also crossing the length of the Quidditch pitch so that now they were right in front of her. She saw the Snitch in a sudden bright flash of gold as it sped down towards the ground. Harry and Draco followed it, their bodies creating a breeze that blew into her face as they passed.

Everyone jumped up, leaning over the railings to see down, but they were gone already, circling the pitch in a desperate effort to catch the tiny, fluttering golden ball that somehow still managed to elude them both. The Snitch stopped abruptly and then reversed direction, and Draco rammed his body into Harry's as they both spun around. Hermione heard Neville, Luna and Dean begin to shout and boo around her, but they seemed very far away. She was watching the Snitch, which had begun to rise once again, and was flying straight for the stands now.

Dennis Creevey was silent. The other players had stopped moving, watching as Draco and Harry raced for the Snitch. It was so early in the game, so early, and if they could win, it would be a shut-out for Gryffindor. 160-0 would be a score for them to gloat about for ages.

With a tiny, mosquito-like buzzing, the Snitch flew right over her head and behind her. Everyone else spun to watch it go, but now her attention had been diverted again. Harry and Draco were flying straight at her, and Draco's face was locked into a grimace that frightened her, and his eyes were moving from the Snitch as he flew towards her, moving to look at her, and he smiled a horrible, cruel smile.

No, it wasn't a smile. He was leering at her, practically undressing her with his eyes. He let go of the broom, stretching one hand out in front of him. She grabbed for her wand desperately, convinced that he was going to fly right into her. The look in his eyes was dangerous, almost murderous.

They were so close, coming closer every second, and then Draco was only inches away from her, and all she could hear was the rushing of wind and the flapping of his robes and then he was gone, and she had fallen back into her seat, her wand out and her heart beating so hard that she could not hear the roaring of the students around her over the noise that it made. Harry was flying overhead, circling the stands with a disgusted look on his face, and Draco was speeding to the ground, his fingers wrapped around something small and golden.

"Slytherin wins the match," said Dennis Creevey, sounding frankly disappointed. "That's it, then. Nothing to see. Back to your Houses, you lot."

Down on the field, Slytherins were cheering and congratulating one another. Hermione slid her wand back into her sleeve, ignoring the questioning looks from her friends, and fled.

0 0 0

He ignored the Quidditch match. From behind, he could read very little about her, but the thing, the sense of wrongness, was still there, like a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn't quite remember. Creevey's voice droned in the background, narrating one of the least interesting Quidditch games that it had ever been Severus' misfortune to attend. It certainly was doing nothing to hold his attention.

Seamus Finnegan dropped his wand and fell to his knees, feeling about unnecessarily on the floor for it and crawling over to Miss Granger. It was a bad angle for lip-reading, but Severus saw him say something to that girl and she stiffened immediately. He instantly moved his attention to the game, wondering if he'd been caught staring.

Caught staring—like a lovesick schoolboy. He disciplined his eyes to watch only Potter and Draco, utterly disgusted with himself for his lapse. A week of studiously ignoring her, and now he was caught ogling her by a student?

Not that he'd been ogling, of course. He'd been watching. Thinking. Considering. But it looked like ogling, and that was the real point, in the end. A general shout rose up as both Seekers saw the Snitch and, in tandem, flew after it. He smiled inwardly—it was just an example of why Quidditch could be so pleasurable to watch. The movements of the two fliers so high above the rest of the crowd were graceful, like an old ballet that he'd once seen a few moments of on the television at Lily's.

Yes, they moved through the air like dancers. It was a fanciful idea, one he didn't normally give even mental voice to, but he rather liked it. They dove for the ground, following the Snitch as it flew downwards, right past the spot where Severus was sitting. Everyone else stood to follow them, but he didn't bother—he was too far up to get a good view over the heads of his students, and both boys were still too far behind to catch the Snitch in the next few seconds.

In another moment, they were visible again, rising through the air. The Snitch flew over his head and hovered just in front of him for a moment before it darted upwards once more. Draco and Harry were following. In seconds they'd be within inches of Miss Granger and Longbottom.

They both seemed to be aware of this, for Longbottom had ducked low into his seat, and Granger had reached for her wand. As he stared, everything began to slow down oddly. Her hand darted into the sleeve of her robe, obviously feeling for her wand as her eyes moved to Draco's face. That was when he felt it: a surge of loathing, rage and fear so intense that it nearly knocked him over with the force of it. Granger's face was twisting horribly, something flashing behind her eyes that he recognized with a sickening jolt.

And then it was over, and Draco was speeding over their heads and the Slytherins were erupting into shouts and screams of triumph over their first win for the year.

Dazedly, he went through the motions that he had gone through so many times before. He met Draco's eye, clapping politely. He plastered his usual mocking smirk over his face and displayed it to Minerva, who reciprocated by glaring daggers at him. He did everything, in short, except to look at the one person who occupied all of his thoughts in that moment.

Because he knew that look that he'd seen on her face. He knew those feelings. And he suddenly understood what she'd done.

The girl had cast an unforgivable.

"Merlin," he whispered, staring at the snow-covered pitch. She'd cast an unforgivable at _Draco._

0 0 0

"It's total bollocks. He obviously shoved you," said Ron grumpily over the chess board in the Common Room later that night. "It was a clear foul."

"Yeah, well," answered Harry with a shrug. "Hooch didn't call it, so there wasn't much I could do about it, was there?" He moved a pawn and Ron captured it immediately, setting it to the side of the board.

"I'm surprised you didn't have a go at him right there," he said, placing the pawn carefully aside.

"Bad luck, Harry," said Seamus as he came through the portrait hole with Dean. "It's too bad Madam Hooch didn't call that foul on Malfoy, or he'd never have got ahead of you like that."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Right. Thanks, Seamus."

Hermione was curled up in an armchair, her feet perched on one arm and her back propped against the other with a pillow. She peeked over the Potions text she was reading. Harry was brooding, glaring at the chess set with all the bad feeling of a man who feels sure that he's been cheated.

"Cheer up, Harry," she said, turning a page. "It's only their first win of the year. They lost so many players, I heard they actually petitioned Professor McGonagall for permission to recruit first years."

"Is that why the one Chaser is so bloody tiny?" asked Ron curiously, not taking his eyes away from the chessboard.

"Nah," said Harry, finally moving his knight. "McGonagall didn't give them permission to do it." He grinned. "Said it took really special extenuating circumstances to make an exception like that."

A few girls snickered over their homework, obviously listening in on the conversation. Ron stole a glance at them and suddenly his face had a grin to match Harry's, roguish and self-satisfied. "Bet Snape had kittens over that one," he said gleefully, "after Dumbledore let you on the team early."

"_Professor_ Snape," said Hermione, laying a slight emphasis on the first word, "isn't head of Slytherin anymore, Ron, so I doubt he was the one who asked."

"Isn't he?" said Ron vaguely. "Bishop takes knight. When did that happen?"

"Beginning of the year," said Hermione, frowning at her book.

"Oh." He and Harry both stared at the chess board. Ron tapped his fingertips on the side of the table, a light, repetitive noise that began very quickly to get on Hermione's nerves. "Who's head of Slytherin then?" he finally asked, furrowing his brow as he scrutinized the board.

"Professor Slughorn, Ron," said Harry in an exasperated tone that might have come from Hermione herself. "Even I knew that one, mate. Queen takes bishop."

Hermione tuned them out, focusing on the Potions text instead. Talk of the Quidditch match would eventually move to Draco Malfoy and she couldn't be listening when it did, or she'd be sick. She'd been so sure that he was going to attack her, as he and Harry flew over her head. Why? Was she that paranoid? Was she that afraid of him, that she could develop such a sudden irrational fear that he would attack her in front of the whole school?

But she must be. She had drawn her wand. She had expected him to hurt her.

Because she'd seen his eyes.

With a shudder, she turned another page.

0 0 0

By Saturday evening and the commencement of the Yule Ball, Severus had managed to rein himself in enough that he was able to think of other things while he thought about Hermione Granger and the puzzle she presented.

At first he thought that she must have cast the unforgivable during the final Battle. That would explain it quite easily. Nearly every Order member had done so, probably multiple times, and Draco had surely been as unsubtle about his allegiances during the Battle as he always was. It was a wonder to Severus how the Malfoys managed to stay out of jail with as much success as they historically did.

Then he remembered the sudden change he'd felt in her and the flash of recognition he'd felt when she looked at Draco. If it had been that long since she'd cast the unforgivable—whether it was Cruciatus or Imperio he didn't know, although he'd wager a guess on Cruciatus, based on the sheer force of her hatred for the boy—he wouldn't have noticed a change. That meant it must have been recent, probably during the Hogsmeade weekend.

Why hadn't he felt it? He distinctly remembered hearing from Albus that Potter had known when the Dark Lord punished his followers. It had always disturbed Severus to know that if he went to Voldemort's side and faced Cruciatus at his hands, Potter might see it through the eyes of the one who tortured him.

But Voldemort had done and said so many horrible things, and Potter hadn't known all of them. Apparently the connection wasn't entirely consistent. And so there was no way to know what had happened, short of asking one of them, and that was far too clumsy an approach to appeal to him.

"Severus," cooed Rolanda Hooch, sidling up to him and smiling with far too many teeth. "Happy Christmas."

"It is not Christmas yet, Rolanda," he said quellingly.

"Killjoy," she answered, utterly failing to be intimidated. "Have a drink, Severus, it's time you relaxed a bit. The war's over, after all, and it's almost Christmas.

He did not exactly sneer, and he did not exactly wrinkle his nose. He merely rearranged his face in such a way that it left no room for doubt regarding his low opinion of her intelligence. "The war is not over."

"Old soldiers never die, eh?" She chuckled into her punch. "How about a dance, then? Even if the war isn't over?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Madam, I am not inclined to dance."

"Don't be so stuffy, Severus. Everyone's dancing."

"_I _am not."

"Make an exception. Try and get into the spirit of things a little, won't you?"

"If I do choose to dance, you may rest assured that I will seek out a partner on my own behalf rather than dancing with the first woman who accosts me."

"Have it your way, Severus. I'll have another dance with Slughorn."

"Indeed," he murmured, already walking away from her and beginning his customary prowl around the outside edges of the Great Hall. Sprigs of mistletoe were hung indiscriminately from every possible location, and he avoided them scrupulously. It was never a good idea to linger underneath the mistletoe with Sibyl Trelawney on the loose, as she surely would be.

"My goodness, Severus," said Professor McGonagall, startling him out of a reverie he didn't realize he'd slipped into. "Just in this last hour I have counted eleven distinct opportunities for you to mention Slytherin's victory yesterday, and you have let all of them go by. Is something distracting you?"

"I see that you have been cultivating your rather formidable talent for imitation, Minerva. Tell me, has Albus been giving you personal critiques or are you merely that well-acquainted with his mannerisms and pithy little comments?"

She chuckled, standing beside him and surveying the scene in the Great Hall with visible satisfaction. "It really is pleasant, isn't it, Severus? Seeing all of our students back here, and things restored to order."

He scanned the room. Most of the students were dancing, although many of the first and second years stood in awkward clumps, whispering to each other and attempting to look older than they were. Nearly everyone was laughing and happy.

"It is," he finally admitted, grudgingly.

"I did ask you in all seriousness," she said, her voice dropping a bit lower. "Are you…distracted?"

He instinctively sought for Miss Granger's face in the crowd and found it almost immediately (it was becoming rather a talent with him). She was dancing with Weasley, a sight that made his stomach turn. It would take a great deal of getting used to if he were to be bound to the spouse of one of those red-haired menaces.

"I am not," he said carefully.. He could feel her eyes boring into the side of his head and instinctively moved his hand up to cover his scar, resting it there casually.

"Are you quite sure of that?"

Was he? He frowned. "Have you seen evidence that I am not?"

"Not necessarily. I assume that your plans for end of term are all laid out?"

"Naturally, Minerva." In a manner of speaking. He had a vague idea about accosting her sometime after her last Potions lesson of the term and possibly giving her a letter of some sort. Dealing with women was not something that he enjoyed, especially not when the women were likely to be hostile, which he was relatively certain Miss Granger was.

"I'm glad to hear that, Severus." She gave him a warm smile. "If there's anything I can do to help—"

"I will be sure to let you know," he said dryly. "Although, if you recall, you turned down the suggestion I did make."

"I'll do everything I can to help you, short of doing your job for you."

"Would you care to dance, Minerva?"

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"To dance," he said smoothly, repressing a smirk. "I am told it is common at a function such as this one."

0 0 0

"Hermione," whispered Ron, whose chin was digging very uncomfortably into the top of her head as they danced, or rather as they shuffled slowly from foot to foot. "Look."

"At what, Ronald?" she asked, her voice muffled in the collar of his dress robes.

"Snape and McGonagall." She felt a portion of dead weight lift from her arm and realized with some chagrin that he was actually _pointing._ She stopped pretending to dance and turned around, her cheeks burning with embarrassment over Ron's behavior yet again.

But a number of other people were pointing too, and a low, buzzing murmur was beginning to fill the room. Professor Snape had gathered Professor McGonagall into his arms and was dancing with her—rather well, as it happened.

"Blimey," said Ron, staring at them. "Where'd they learn to do that?"

"Well it makes sense, doesn't it? Heads of House do dancing lessons, Ron, or did you forget?" She had a strong private suspicion that he had.

"Oh," he said slowly. "Well, yeah, I knew McGonagall could dance. But Snape?"

"You don't see Draco Malfoy going about treading on Pansy's toes," she said, with some asperity.

"Oi! Ron, Hermione!" Harry and Ginny hurried over to them, Harry casting a glance at Professor Snape and the Headmistress as they did.

"You get a load of that, mate?" asked Ron. Harry grinned.

"Yeah, I did. Wonders never cease, eh? Hey, we've been talking—what do you say we skive off on Wednesday and head back to Grimmauld Place a little early? All the extra work we've been doing, I think we deserve a little break."

Ron glanced doubtfully at Hermione. "I don't know," he said carefully. "What about classes, Harry?"

Just at that moment, Draco Malfoy came into view and Hermione felt something awful clench in her stomach. Leaving Hogwarts early suddenly seemed like a very, very good idea.

"I think it sounds like a wonderful idea, Harry," she said immediately, flashing him her most brilliant smile and giving Ron a hard pinch on the arm when he opened his mouth. "Of course we'll leave early with you. It's only a day, after all, and it's about time we all had a break."

0 0 0

The next few days passed with dreary regularity. Severus was frequently amused by the fact that his students seemed to believe that professors did not look forward to holidays as much as they themselves did. Judging from his own memories of his student days, he looked forward to holidays far more now than he ever did as a child.

He kept a close eye on Draco and Miss Granger, primarily to ensure that they stayed well apart from one another. There would be ample time to interrogate the girl, but if she'd already let fly with an unforgivable in the middle of Hogsmeade then there was no telling what might happen if the fool provoked her in a corridor or classroom. Otherwise, he maintained his previous strategy, watching her at every possible moment to assure himself that she didn't know the secret--yet.

Although, he decided ruefully late on Tuesday night as her listened to her shouting at the Weasley boy in one of the gardens, if she did know, he would probably find out very quickly, even if he wasn't spying on her.

He woke up Wednesday morning with the grim certainty that something was not at all right.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** boolavogue was reviewer number 1000. Send me an email and let me know whether you'd like your prize. If not, I'll move on to reviewer 1001, and so on. (you can get me at zeegrindylows at gmail dot com)

This chapter took some hard work. Quidditch is hard to write, by the way. I also had the chapter halfway done and lost the whole thing in a crash, so I had to start over.

Christmas holidays have finally started.. time for things to start getting crazy. Reviewers, you all rock my world. Thank you for being out there and for being great.

And special thanks to litaskeeter and to harmonybites for hanging out in WIKTT chat until all hours of the night, keeping me awake and thinking about Harry Potter instead of procrastinating. :)


	30. Things Fall Apart

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 30: Things Fall Apart**

* * *

Severus' hands stopped buttoning up the top of his robes. 

"What do you mean '_gone'_, Filch?" he said very slowly, staring at the wizened gray figure before him.

The squib's head bobbed, his eyes flashing with glee over the imagined punishment that Potter, Weasley and Miss Granger were sure to receive. He stroked Mrs. Norris' head swiftly and repetitiously, licking his dry, thin lips and smiling maliciously.

"Came to you as soon as Mrs. Norris told me, Professor," he wheezed. "All three of them upped and went, not an hour ago, loaded down with knapsacks and all. I knew you'd want to know." He nodded fatuously, flakes of dandruff falling from his bald crown to his shoulders. Severus did his best not to look. "Knew you'd want to hear what Potter was up to, didn't we, my love?" Mrs. Norris purred and butted her head into Filch's, blinking her lamplike eyes.

Merlin, he hated that cat.

"Do you mean to tell me," he finally said, "that they appear to have left for the duration of the holidays? Today?"

"Aye," said the caretaker with a nasty smile.

"But today is Wednesday," he said dumbly, becoming painfully aware as soon as the words left his mouth how utterly asinine they were. Of course it was bloody Wednesday.

"So it is, sir, so it is," said Filch sycophantically. "And early in the day yet. If you go after 'em, you might catch 'em."

He closed his eyes. Catch them? Not without breaking down the doors of Grimmauld Place or the Burrow by force--or worse, the doors of whatever house the girl's parents occupied.

"I think not," he said. He suddenly felt very grim. "Have you informed the Headmistress, Filch?"

Another shake of the head. "Knew you'd want to be told first, sir, taking an interest in the Potter brat like you do."

His interest in Potter indeed. As if it were _Potter _he cared about. With a jerk of his arms, Severus resumed swiftly buttoning up the top of his robes, his hair falling around his face as he bent his head. "You must tell Headmistress McGonagall of this immediately, Filch. Inform her that I will join her in her office shortly to discuss the matter."

Filch cackled with the malicious self-satisfaction of a busybody who's sure of gossip well-shared. "Very good, Professor," he chuckled as he began to shuffle back towards the stairs out of the dungeons.

It took Severus five full minutes to regain his customary composure and self-control. He sat down, closing his eyes and forcing himself to concentrate. Tentatively and with great trepidation, he reached into his mind for the spot where, as he had come to think of it, Miss Granger resided.

And she wasn't there, damn it all. The whole thing had been so insidious that he hadn't even really noticed his growing awareness of her presence. Oh, he'd thought about her, of course. He'd tracked nearly every move she'd made through the castle, in fact, but this was something else. Now that she was gone, he realized he'd been able to feel that she was close.

The more he studied the absence in his mind, he realized that he still _could _sense her, in a way. He was, at the very least, quite convinced that she was alive and comparatively well. He felt yet again his sense of awe at the Dark Lord's power as a Legilimens, to have been able to reach so far across such a void and intentionally influence Potter's thoughts and dreams. Once any real physical distance was put between them, he could no more barge into her thoughts than he could have if she were employing serious Occlumency against him.

It did occur to him that she might _be _using Occlumency. He didn't put it past the girl to read a book and simply figure out how it worked, especially if he'd imprinted her with some facsimile of his own skills. If she had made the deduction in spite of his efforts and fled because of it, it would not be impossible for her to block him out of her mind, as he had done his best to do to her.

There was nothing for it but to go to Minerva. He was a fool. How had he become so lax, so _sloppy _as to allow himself the weakness of putting the moment off for so long?

He rose hurriedly, slamming the door to his chambers behind him and all but running through the corridors that led to her office.

0 0 0

They left while it was still dark, not wanting to be caught and found out while they could still be detained. It was very still and peaceful in the early morning, the usual nighttime sounds muffled by the blanket of snow that had settled itself down over Hogwarts. The air was crisp and clean and refreshing. Hermione felt more awake than she had in weeks.

"Almost at the Apparition point," whispered Harry, reaching out to rest his hand on the small of Ginny's back as they walked. Each of them carried a bag on their backs, enhanced with Hermione's Undetectable Expansion Charm and filled with clothes, books, and Christmas gifts. Hermione wanted to giggle, suddenly. It was ridiculously exciting, sneaking out of Hogwarts early. She didn't remember hearing of anyone else doing it before.

But then, they weren't anyone else. And it had been so frustrating, in so many ways, to spend a year living as adults and then to return to Hogwarts and be expected to behave like all of the underage students. No wonder there was normally a policy to prevent it.

"This is it, isn't it?" said Ron softly as they passed the gates.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Grimmauld Place, then. Let's go."

Four people turned in tandem and disappeared, leaving only a trail of footprints behind.

0 0 0

"Gone?" said Minerva blankly. "They've _left_?"

"Yes," he said through his gritted teeth. "They have left."

"But why?"

He snorted. "One can only presume, Minerva, that they wished to begin Christmas holidays early and decided to walk out on their responsibilities in typical Gryffindor fashion. It should not surprise you--after all, Potter was involved."

"Quite," she said shortly. "And if you are finished casting aspersions on my House, I will thank you to keep your mouth shut about it unless you have something useful to suggest."

"I _suggest,_" he ground out, "that you allow me to go after them immediately and fetch them back again."

"Out of the question, Severus. You have a duty to your other students to finish the day's lessons and to be here tomorrow to supervise their leaving, at which point there will be no reason to fetch them back. Bide your time another two days and then go to Grimmauld Place and speak with her there."

"Do you mean to tell me that you intend to do nothing about this flagrant violation of school rules, Minerva?" He was dimly aware that he'd begun shouting, but he was past caring.

"Lower your voice, Severus. Of course not," she snapped. "Believe me, I will deal with them and I will ensure that they _thoroughly _regret their actions. But there is a time and a place and the time is not now. As to the place, you'll achieve nothing by assigning detention or removing House points while you're in London, and neither will I."

There was a tapping at the window. A handsome tawny owl waited on the sill and Minerva picked up a piece of parchment and tapped it once with her wand. The parchment immediately turned red. She smiled grimly and gave it to the owl through the window.

"Addressed to Mr. Harry Potter, as you can see. Thank you very much." She picked up an owl treat from a small, ornate dish that rested on the windowsill and passed that through the window, then closed it again as the owl took off, rising swiftly into the air and disappearing from view.

It gave him only a very minor satisfaction to know that Minerva McGonagall had just sent a howler to one Harry Potter. That, he decided, was a good enough indication of how disturbed and upset he really was. He'd never known Minerva to send a howler to _anyone _before. He would have expected to be positively gleeful over the idea that Potter would be the first.

"I did suggest that something like this might happen if we brought them back after a year away, Dumbledore," she said grumpily. Her robes, he noticed, were fastened unevenly. Filch had apparently dragged her out of bed as well as him. That was some small comfort.

"Indeed you did, Minerva," replied the dead Headmaster genially. "And you will recall that you decided in the end that there were worse things than Harry and the rest rebelling occasionally against what will surely feel to them like unnecessary restrictions."

"Attending their scheduled classes is hardly an unnecessary restriction, Dumbledore!"

"Indeed not, Severus. Believe me, I am very aware of the seriousness of the infraction, and Minerva has already assured you that they will be punished."

"They _should _be expelled."

"Oh I don't agree with that. It's natural for young people to feel a sort of restless exuberance around Christmastime, isn't it? Let them be childlike once in a while, Severus. Merlin knows they've earned it."

"Let them do it in such a way that it does not interfere with their schooling or my plans, Albus," he spat angrily.

0 0 0

Harry, on Ginny's suggestion, had sent Kreacher on ahead the night before to prepare the house for their arrival. Thus it was that they found it warm and inviting and full of interesting, Christmassy smells. Every fireplace blazed, and their bedrooms were spotless.

"I've got to give you credit, Hermione," said Ron as they settled down to a sumptuous breakfast. "It really does pay to be nice to House-Elves once in a while."

"Oh, you noticed, did you?" she said nastily, not looking up from the toast on which she was now busily spreading marmalade.

"Hey now," he said in an injured tone. "You know I like House Elves."

She felt her cheeks getting hot, thinking of their kiss during the Battle. "I know. I'm...just tired. Didn't sleep well last night." It wasn't strictly a lie. She hadn't slept at _all _last night, and therefore could hardly be said to have slept well.

"We'll get you to bed early tonight," said Harry, in true elder-brother fashion, pouring her another cup of tea. "We're officially celebrating Christmas now. You can laze around all you like at my house. No chores to do, for one."

"Best argument I've heard yet for spending Christmas here instead of the Burrow," said Ron reverently.

"When are Dudley and your aunt getting here, Harry?" asked Ginny, who was sitting as close to him as she decently could. Hermione felt a flash of jealousy, not over Harry but for how well they got along, and how happy they seemed.

"Two days," said Harry, through a mouthful of sausage. "That was the original plan, and I want a few days here alone before Aunt Petunia shows up."

"Don't blame you," said Ron, shaking his head. "She's a terror."

"Don't be rude, Ron."

"I wasn't!"

"It's fine, Hermione, he's right. She _is _a terror."

"Harry," said Ginny suddenly, pointing at the kitchen window. "Owl."

There was something odd in her voice, and when Harry let the owl in and the red envelope fluttered onto the table, Hermione understood why.

"Might as well open it, mate," said Ron, scooting his chair back a few inches as tiny curls of smoke began to rise from the corners of the envelope. "Go ahead."

Harry winced, but he picked the letter up and broke the seal. It flew out of his hands, rising into the air and filling the kitchen with a booming female voice that roared at Harry in a familiar accent.

"HARRY JAMES POTTER! NEVER IN ALL MY YEARS HAVE I SEEN SUCH A FLAGRANT DISREGARD FOR SCHOOL RULES!"

Harry literally ducked. Ron and Ginny clapped their hands over their ears, and Hermione did the same, after a moment. Professor McGonagall's voice was so loud that it began to cause her physical pain.

"I COULD NOT POSSIBLY BE MORE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU! DON'T EXPECT TO GET AWAY WITH THIS UNPUNISHED!"

An abrupt silence filled the room as the letter shredded itself and burst into flames, settling into a pile of ashes on the kitchen table.

"Well," said Ron dazedly. "I'd say they know we've gone."

0 0 0

For the first Wednesday morning since the beginning of the term, Severus sat in the auxiliary Potions classroom alone. The customary pile of parchment sat in front of him, untouched. Instead, he looked at the empty worktable, cleared of everything except for her cauldron.

The blackboard was wiped quite clean, and everything was quiet and peaceful. There was nothing keeping him from a peaceful hour of grading, and maybe even a little work on his own research.

His quill lay on the desk. He didn't _like _the silence. Not that they'd talked much, but brewing a potion was not a silent activity, and he'd grown used to a sense of quiet camaraderie as he listened to the soothing noise of the knife hitting the cutting board, or the soft bubbling within the cauldron. He felt oddly bereft.

He scowled. Minerva had no right to force him to continue these ridiculous lessons, demanding that he spend hours of time alone with the one student he ought to be studiously avoiding. He needed to speak with her about it--again.

Rising from his desk, he began to pull ingredients from the shelves, lining them up carefully on the table and beginning to chop and grate and shred, swiftly combining ingredients in the bottom of the cauldron. Poppy didn't necessarily need more Burn Paste, but he needed to occupy himself with something, and the simple act of brewing was a panacea to him.

By the time the hour was up and he'd left the potion to simmer and reduce, he felt much better, or so he told himself.

0 0 0

Hermione carried the small cauldron down to the kitchen, placing it on the stove and lighting the flame with a flick of her wand. She adjusted it carefully, warming the thick, viscous fluid in the cauldron until it began to swirl slowly.

Harry was pacing back and forth, occasionally stopping to watch her and ask questions. "That looks foul," he said at one point, staring into the blood-red liquid of the potion. "Am I going to have to drink it?"

"No, Harry. Not all potions are for drinking. Think of Burn Paste. It just goes on your skin."

"I know that, I just didn't know about this one. Calm down."

"Don't mind her, Harry," said Ron from the kitchen table. "She's just being typical Hermione."

"Oh thanks, Ron."

"Both of you can shut up," snapped Ginny, who seemed almost as edgy as Harry did. "How long until it's ready, Hermione?"

She frowned, waving her wand in a complex motion over the top of the cauldron and studying the runes that appeared in the air above it. "It needs to be blood temperature and then we can add the last ingredients."

"That's macabre," said Ginny, wrinkling her nose. "Are you _sure _this isn't dark magic?"

Hermione made a face. "Professor Snape says it's a misconception that all blood potions are dark magic. He said the majority of them _aren't_."

"Well, he's the authority on dark magic, isn't he?" sniped Ron.

Hermione spun around, hands on her hips. "If you've got a problem, Ron, why don't you just spit it out?"

He put both his hands up. "No problems, no problems. Blimey, maybe you should take a nap before we do any more."

"I'm _fine_." She turned back to the potion, checking the temperature. Just a few more degrees and it would be right where she needed it.

"Must be that time of month," muttered Ron in an undertone that she, unfortunately, still caught.

"Say that again," she snarled, not turning around this time, "and I'll jinx your tongue so badly that it _never _comes untied."

Harry looked both amused and alarmed. "Are you mad, Ron? Never say something like that to a girl. Even I've figured that one out."

Ginny snorted none too delicately, and Harry shuddered. "That's the sort of mistake you only make once, if you get me," he added.

"It's ready," said Hermione, staring apprehensively into the cauldron. It looked exactly right, but with her luck it would be when it really mattered that she'd finally make a serious mistake. She set her wand down, clasping her hands together to keep from wringing them.

"So we just need the maiden's hair, and then to add the blood, yeah?" Harry moved to stand beside her again, peering into the cauldron once more.

"Yeah," she said, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest. The moment of truth was so close. Harry had gone pale, and Ginny was unnaturally still.

"Well," said Ron in a somewhat forced voice, "let's get some scissors and clip a bit of it then."

He stood up and started rummaging in drawers. Finding a pair of scissors, he spun them casually, like a gunslinger in a Western. Then he advanced on Hermione, raising the scissors and clipping them at her a few times. They looked like hungry jaws.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, taking a step back.

"What's it look like I'm doing? We need some hair from a virgin, you twit."

"I--" she looked desperately at Harry and then at Ginny, her entire face beginning to feel prickly and hot. "You can't use my hair," she whispered.

Ron stopped walking. "What do you mean?"

She looked down. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably and her knees felt as though they might buckle underneath her at any moment.

"I mean it... won't work," she whispered, even more quietly.

Ginny's eyes went wide and she jumped up from her seat. "Use mine, Ron," she said loudly.

"No," said Ron, not taking his eyes from Hermione. "I want to know why we can't use hers."

Harry, too, seemed to have caught on. Still quite pale, he inched a little closer to her and she felt the warmth of his body, real and comforting and protective. "I'd rather use Ginny's, Ron. She's my girlfriend. It sort of makes it more personal, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," said Ron, his voice beginning to sound oddly strangled. "But I want to know why Hermione's wouldn't work."

Hermione licked her lips. When had they got so dry? If she tried to talk, she was sure they'd crack open and bleed. Ron was coming closer, the scissors hanging forgotten in one hand. She backed into the counter.

"Because," she said softly, closing her eyes.

"Because _why_?"

"Ron," said Harry. "Don't."

"Shut up, Harry! I want to know why! Get out of the bloody way!" She heard a scuffle and opened her eyes. Ron had pushed Harry aside and he was right in front of her, staring at her face with a look of suspicion and anger. "Why won't it work, Hermione?"

"Don't," she whispered, tears beginning to fill her eyes. "Please, Ron, don't."

"Tell me!"

"Because I'm not a virgin!" she gasped, throwing her hands up to cover her face.

Ron didn't speak. She heard him breathing, felt the awful tension that he exuded. But there were no words. Time seemed to have stopped, and slowly she forced herself to lower her hands again, to open her eyes and blink through her tears until she could see.

He hadn't moved, but his face had become strangely distorted. He seemed to be struggling for mastery of himself.

"I _knew _it," he breathed. "I bloody _knew _it."

"Ron," said Harry again. "Back away."

"Shut the fuck up, Harry," he snarled. "This is between me and Hermione. Who was it?" he dropped the scissors on the floor with a clatter that made Hermione jump. "_Who was it_, Hermione?"

She shuddered, the all-too-familiar nausea rising in her stomach as she remembered Malfoy's sweaty face, his hungry, possessive grunts and the humiliating paralysis of the full-body bind. "It doesn't matter, Ron. It doesn't matter who it was."

"It bloody well does matter, Hermione."

"It can't be undone," she whispered, a sob in her voice. "Leave me alone."

"I will _not _leave you alone. I knew it! I knew you'd turn out to be nothing but a mudblood whore!"

"Ron!" Harry grabbed Ron by the shoulder, jerking him away from Hermione. "You're out of line, mate. Go upstairs and cool off."

"Let go of me, Harry!" he shouted, but Harry didn't. "Was it you? When I was gone? In the forest, Harry? Did you lie to me too?"

"No! What do you take me for?"

"Well it's difficult to say, isn't it? I took _her _for someone worthwhile, didn't I?" he paused and looked at her, snorting humorlessly. "Then again, someone else obviously did too."

Harry punched him. Hermione gasped and Ginny let out a surprised shriek. Ron stumbled back, reaching up to touch the blood that trickled down his chin from his mouth. His eyes were wild and he turned on Hermione again.

"To think I wanted to marry you," he spat. "You're disgusting."

"Get _out_, Ron," said Harry dangerously, pulling his wand and pointing it at his best friend. Ginny took his arm and tugged roughly.

"Come with me, you great git," she said, digging her fingernails into his arm. "Upstairs before you do any more damage. I'm ashamed of you."

Hermione didn't watch as Ginny dragged her brother from the room. She sank to the floor, her back pressed against the cabinets and her body beginning to shake with the force of her suppressed sobbing.

"Hermione..." said Harry, trailing off uncertainly.

"Leave me alone, Harry," she whispered miserably between gasps for air. "Just please... leave me alone."

He sat down beside her, awkwardly draping his arm across her shoulder. "Hermione," he said again helplessly. "It's... it'll be okay, alright?" He patted her awkwardly and she cried harder, going limp against him.

"I just... want... my m-mum," she sobbed, sure that she was either going to throw up or break apart from the violence of her tears.

"I know," he said, sounding almost as miserable as she felt. "I'm sorry. It's my fault she's not here..."

"N-no," she whimpered. "D-don't be sorry. S'_my _fault, not y-yours." She was beginning to hiccough as her tears subsided a little.

"It's not your fault that Ron's a right bastard," said Ginny angrily from the doorway. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I thought he'd finally begun to come 'round, but apparently not."

She sniffed loudly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. "I can't stay here," she said, swallowing her tears and forcing herself to take a few slow breaths. "Harry, I'm so sorry, but I can't."

"I'll send Ron away, Hermione. You don't have anywhere else to go--"

She shook her head, straightening up carefully and drying her face again. "No. I'll leave. Let Ron stay, I don't care."

"Of course you care, Hermione--"

"I don't care!" she shouted, pulling herself unsteadily to her feet. "I don't care, Harry, and I'm leaving."

Harry stayed on the floor, lifting his head and giving her an odd, pitying look. "I think you do care," he said softly, his own voice catching a bit on the words. "Look at you, Hermione. You--you care so much, it hurts. Like you'll bleed to death with the pain of it."

She gave a little gasp, closing her eyes. "Stop talking, Harry. Please."

She needn't have asked. He was staring down at his own hands, looking as though he might start crying himself. She picked up her wand, sliding it into its customary place in her sleeve.

"I'll just go collect my things," she said, with a calm she didn't feel.

0 0 0

Severus glared at Neville Longbottom. The boy ought to have known that Potter was going to drag his friends away early and stopped them.

"Longbottom," he said venomously. He was answered with an anxious look.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said carefully, setting a roll of parchment down on the desk, no doubt containing his latest written assignment.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Longbottom," he snapped.

"Er... yes, sir," said Longbottom, obviously startled. "Was I late?"

"You," said Severus, rising from his chair and doing his best to contain his ire, "should have been paying more attention to your own House, Longbottom. Are you or are you not Head Boy?"

"I... I am Head Boy," he stammered, backing away. Severus advanced, scowling angrily.

"And yet you let Potter, Granger and Weasley sneak off of school grounds fully two days before they ought to have left! Have you learned nothing from these lessons, you foolish boy? _Vigilance_, Longbottom! And you showed none!"

"I--they _what_?"

"They've done a bunk, Longbottom," he snarled. "Consider yourself lucky I don't take another ten points for your failure to maintain order among your fellow students. Get out of my sight, you worthless excuse for a wizard."

0 0 0

Hermione dumped out her knapsack on her bed, taking stock of everything she'd brought with her. Harry and Ginny's Christmas presents went on her dresser, with a note for Kreacher to deliver them Christmas morning. A few of her most precious books went back into the knapsack, as did her favorite set of non-school robes, and a few extra changes of clothes.

She riffled through her closet, pulling out a few things that she hadn't bothered bringing to school because of the cold weather.

As Hermione stuffed her clothes back into her knapsack, she heard raised voices down the hall. Harry and Ginny seemed to be shouting at Ron. On another day, it would have made her feel better to know that they were taking her side. Now, she couldn't find it in herself to care. It didn't matter whose side they took.

She wondered if they suspected the truth. Harry certainly knew her well enough to guess that there hadn't been anyone else for her other than Ron (well, except maybe Viktor, but that had been an age ago). Ginny would certainly guess the same. Was that why they'd gone so readily to her defense? Had they guessed?

She dropped the knapsack on the bed and ran for the bathroom, falling to her knees and retching miserably into the toilet, closing her eyes as her breakfast made its way back up her throat. If they knew everything, they'd hate her as much as Ron did. She moaned softly, resting her forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink.

"Hermione?"

She turned around slowly, giving her mouth a swipe with one hand. Ginny was standing in the doorway, hugging herself with both arms.

"I'm sorry," said Ginny regretfully, her eyes glistening. "I'm sorry he's such an ass. He really does love you."

"I don't care." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, high and brittle.

"I know. I'm not saying you should. I just didn't want you to think he's been stringing you along without really caring for you or something."

"It doesn't matter," she said dully, getting to her feet and rinsing her mouth out in the sink.

"Where are you going to go?"

"I'll owl you when I get there."

"Hermione, it isn't safe to just run off on your own like this."

"I'll be careful."

"Please tell me."

Hermione stared into the mirror. Her eyes were rimmed with red and there were awful, purple hollows underneath them. Her cheeks were sallow-looking and sunken. Her hair was pulled back from her face so severely that her forehead seemed oddly enlarged. She sighed, hanging her head.

"I don't want anyone to follow me, Ginny."

"Fine. We won't follow you. But I'd still like to know, Hermione. Just in case something awful happens and you don't come back in time for next term or something." A half-smile tugged at one side of her mouth. "Besides, I'll need to know where to direct your Christmas present."

"I'll owl you, Ginny, I promise."

"What if something happens before you can?"

She laughed hollowly. "Who do you think you are? Mad-Eye Moody?"

"How about you write it down and seal it in an envelope? I won't read it till you're gone, so I can't try and stop you."

"Who says I'm worried about you trying to stop me?"

"Oh come on, Hermione. Why else wouldn't you tell me?"

"Fine. I'll write it down." She forced herself to relinquish her death grip on the sides of the sink and returned to her bedroom, digging for a fresh piece of parchment and a quill.

"Harry really would kick Ron out if you'd stay."

"I don't want to stay, Ginny. I want to get out of here."

"I know."

She wrote her destination down on the parchment, folded it, and sealed it with her wand. Ginny grabbed her and hugged her tightly.

"Be careful, Hermione. Come back as soon as you can."

"I will."

"Happy Christmas," she said faintly. Hermione forced a smile.

"Happy Christmas, Gin."

0 0 0

He slammed the door behind Longbottom, returning to the center of the classroom and pacing angrily. They had no right, no _right _to run off like that, putting themselves in danger, flouting school rules, and generally ignoring everything they'd ever been told.

He jerked his wand out of his sleeve and pointed it at a candle, blasting it into tiny pieces. The heat ignited the wax and it burst into dozens of tiny, bright flames that sputtered and dripped as they fell to the floor.

It didn't make him feel better.

0 0 0

As she walked out into the hall, she hoisted her knapsack onto her back. The door to Ron's bedroom was open and Harry was standing in it, his mouth still open, having stopped halfway through a sentence when she opened her door.

When she passed, she saw Ron standing in the center of his room, looking angry, but significantly less furious than before. He glanced up as she walked by, stopping for only the briefest of moments to look at him.

"You're leaving?" he asked, staring at her in disbelief.

"Always the tone of surprise," she said bitterly, turning her back on him.

0 0 0

A severe, tired-looking witch in Muggle clothing dialed her way in to the Ministry of Magic, taking a badge from the telephone slot that read "Traveling" and pinning it to her shirt. In the Lobby, she submitted her wand to a search without a word, and then headed directly for the lifts.

"What floor, miss?" said the operator cheerfully. She hesitated.

"Portkeys, please."

"As you like. Sublevel two, Portkey Station."

She stood silently as the lift sped downwards. The lift operator stole a glance or two at her. She reminded him of someone he'd seen recently, though he couldn't put his finger on who it was.

"Sublevel two," he announced as the lift slowed. "Portkey Station. Have a nice journey, miss."

"Thank you," she muttered distractedly, stepping out into the massive hall.

A friendly-looking witch in royal blue robes sat at a desk just beside the lift, a false smile glued onto her face. "Good afternoon!" she said brightly. "Welcome to the British Ministry of Magic Portkey Station. Arrivals or Departures?"

"Departures."

"Name, please?"

"Hermione Granger."

If the Ministry witch recognized the name, she didn't show it. She checked a list and then glanced up. "I don't see a reservation. Where would you like to travel today, Miss Granger?"

Hermione Granger ran her thumb underneath one strap of her knapsack, adjusting it so it sat more comfortably on her shoulder. "When's your next Portkey to Australia?"

The Ministry witch glanced at a timetable, never losing her brilliant, insincere smile. "That leaves in an hour, ma'am. Shall I add you to the list?"

"Yes, please."

"That will be forty Galleons."

Hermione winced slightly, but she pulled a small card from her pocket and extended it to the Ministry witch. "There's my Gringotts information. Charge it to my account, please."

"Thank you very much. There's a waiting area just to the left there. Have a wonderful trip, and Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I have been waiting to write this chapter since I first came up with the idea for the story. 

I hope you're all happy.. she doesn't know the secret yet, but at least she and Ron have finally split up!

I love you, reviewers. Kiss kiss. Another chapter will be coming soon.


	31. Half the Story

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 31: Half of the Story**

* * *

Thursday was an agony of waiting. Without the distraction of teaching classes to aid him, Severus found himself pacing the dungeons restlessly, counting the hours until he was free to flee the grounds of Hogwarts and seek out Potter and Miss Granger. Minerva, it seemed, had confirmed that they were lodging at Grimmauld Place, which at least meant that they were protected to some degree by the diminished Fidelius charm. Still, there was no telling whether or not the little fools might take it into their heads to venture into London for a little shopping or Christmas merrymaking. 

After the attack on Lee Jordan, Severus had entertained hopes of the Terrible Trio curbing their recklessness to some degree. After this latest ridiculous stunt, however, he felt that those hopes had quite obviously been misplaced.

There were nearly no students remaining at school, which he felt was a predictable result of the recent war. Parents wanted their offspring nearby for once, having so recently been confronted with the possibility of losing them. This suited Severus, as it would leave him free to go to London at his leisure and stay there for as long as it took to sort things out with Miss Granger, and to give Potter the thorough dressing down that he deserved.

Not that he really wanted to. But he'd delayed far more than he should already. Minerva would stand for no more, and it was unmanly of him to continue prevaricating. Therefore, he had resigned himself to the fact that he had only one day of privacy left, and on the following day he would go to Grimmauld Place and confront her. Them.

Severus ceased pacing long enough to run both hands distractedly through his hair, leaving it rumpled and disorderly. Speaking to her at Grimmauld Place meant that Potter and the endlessly abominable Weasley would be there during their interview. Perhaps Potter might even insist on listening, whether openly or with those sodding Extendable Ears. As long as he could keep the boy out of the room, at least he could cast an Impervius charm, but who knew if she would allow that?

He wondered if he could count on her to withhold the information from her two ever-present companions, once she had it. He had a vague impression that there was very little, if anything, that they did not share with one another.

He occupied himself with these happy thoughts until lunchtime. The student body was already significantly depleted, and the Hall was therefore unusually quiet. Minerva greeted him warmly—so warmly, in fact, that it was very evident that she was pitying him. He drew back in annoyance, busying himself with his lunch instead. Not that he felt like eating. Mostly, he pushed his food around the plate.

"I wanted to remind you, Severus," said Minerva after a while, leaning over to whisper in his ear, "to be as circumspect as possible tomorrow. Hestia informs me that the Dursleys will be staying with Harry for Christmas. I'm sure you don't want to be overheard by Petunia."

He set his fork down, laying it across his plate. It made a loud noise. "As if I didn't have enough problems already," he said bitterly. "Perhaps I shall avoid them all completely and merely send her a letter outlining the situation."

She looked amused. "If you don't care about it being intercepted, or picked up by one of the boys inadvertently after she reads it, I don't see why you shouldn't do just that."

He stood up, his appetite now entirely gone. "Enough. I will speak with her tomorrow, and I will, believe me, be circumspect." His lip twisted wryly. "You may be surprised to discover it, but I was a spy once."

Minerva feigned shock and he turned and left the Hall, making his way impatiently back to the dungeons where he could brood in peace.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, he had started to feel strange. A sense of dread overtook him, until he began to feel sure that at any moment he'd hear that Death Eaters had staged an attack on London, or that the Order had been compromised somehow. The feeling was so intense, in fact, that he actually began to make his way through the dungeons and up towards Minerva's office to ask her if everything was all right.

He was nearly there when he stopped and staggered against the wall. He felt hot and nauseated, and his skin prickled oddly. A voice seemed to be speaking somewhere nearby, but the students were gone, and the corridors were deserted. He hadn't seen so much as a ghost during the trek from his chambers to the stone gargoyles that marked the office of the Headmistress. He closed his eyes, hoping that his sudden dizziness would pass.

The moment his eyes were closed, he was transported to an unfamiliar place.

_Everything was hazy and out of focus, and he had apparently fallen to the floor. Suddenly there was a flash of blinding light and he raised one hand to shield his face from it._

"_No!" an agonized voice cried. It echoed strangely inside of his head and he realized suddenly that it had come from his own mouth. Someone else nearby was screaming horribly, and he did not need to hear the incantation to know what the cause for it was. Nothing but the Cruciatus curse could make a human being scream like that, and over the years he had been given many opportunities to familiarize himself with the sound. He tried to turn his head and look to see who it was, but he couldn't._

"_Look, curse you!" shrieked a wild voice, and now his head did turn, seemingly of its own accord. A kindly looking middle-aged woman lay twitching on the floor, covered in her own vomit. A dark wet stain was beginning to spread down her legs. He gagged. Blood was gushing from her mouth and when she opened it to scream again, he saw that she had bitten her tongue off in her agony._

_There was a scuffle and then a man fell to his knees beside the woman. He, too, had obviously been Crucio'd to within an inch of his life. His eyes were glazed and his lips were pulled back over his teeth in a skeletal grimace. Severus heard a laugh that sounded familiar, but try as he might he couldn't think why. _

_The laughter stopped abruptly and the same wild voice screamed "_Avada Kedavra_!"_

_There was a flash of green light and the man crumpled to the floor. Another cry, another flash of light, and the woman's twitching ceased as suddenly and completely as if she had never been alive at all. Slowly, the blood stopped flowing from her mouth, until all that was left was a trickle of pink saliva that hung obscenely from her bottom lip. Severus felt an absurd and intense desire to reach out and wipe it off._

"_And now for you, Hermione Granger," said the man—Severus was quite sure it was a man—in a low voice. "Learn what becomes of those who oppose the Dark Lord!"_

_Severus began to laugh. No, Miss Granger began to laugh, for he realized as he listened to the sounds coming from his lips that he was not himself. Just as he had been in his dream, he was her. It was a frightening, hysterical noise, that laughter. _

"_He's dead!" Severus gasped maliciously in Hermione Granger's voice, flinging the words at the faceless man who taunted them. "You're pathetic!"_

_For the first time, the man stepped into Severus' line of sight. His blood ran cold as he saw the twisted, scarred face. The man's yellow eyes narrowed cruelly._

"Crucio_," he said, as calmly and as deliberately as if he'd been remarking on the weather. Pain flooded Severus' body. His eyes filled with water and he was sure that his bones were being pulverized where he lay. Just as he began to retch, someone touched his shoulder._

"Severus! _Severus!_"

With a choking gasp, he opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in front of Minerva's office, looking at the hem of her green robes. It was her hand on his shoulder. He was not being cursed, although he could still feel the ache of it deep in his body.

"Severus?" she said again. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably, but he slowly lurched to his feet, supporting himself against the wall.

"I must go," he managed to say, his voice so hoarse that he wondered if he'd been screaming in reality as well as inside of his mind. The pain had certainly been real. He could still feel it, dimly. "I need to go _now_, Minerva. I cannot delay." It had been so vivid, so intense—he could do nothing but chase after her and pray that it was not too late. For the first time, he understood Potter's compulsions about the Department of Mysteries and thought that perhaps they were not so hard to understand after all.

"What is this? Severus, what's happened? Calm yourself, you aren't making any sense."

"I have no time to discuss this, Minerva!" He let go of the wall, grasping at his wand. "I must go this instant, you do not understand."

"Go _where_, Severus?" He could hear the plain fear in her voice. He coughed, gagging on acid that burned at the back of his throat.

"London. Grimmauld Place. _Now_. Move out of my way, woman, before I curse you out of it!"

"Severus Snape!" She drew herself up angrily. At her stiffest and most upright, she could match him inch for inch, and he had no pointed witch's hat to give him added inches above and beyond that. "Explain yourself!"

"Granger," he said wildly. "He's got her, Minerva. I don't know how he's done it, he isn't even supposed to be in Britain, but he's got her."

She paled. "Who's got her, Severus?"

"Damien Wilkes has got her! Haven't you been listening to me? Now let me go, Minerva, before it's too late. Do you want the girl's blood on your hands? I, for my part, do not!" She was looking at him like he was a madman, and he was vaguely aware that he must sound like one, but it didn't matter. He did not have time to waste on making Minerva McGonagall understand that somewhere, somehow, Damien Wilkes was using the Cruciatus Curse on Miss Granger.

"_What?_ How do you know this, Severus?"

"I—" he stopped abruptly. He didn't _know_, did he? But it was impossible for him to ignore it. Everything within him cried out to go find her, before it was too late. "I saw it," he admitted.

Her brow furrowed. "You saw it?"

"We are accomplishing nothing by standing here like this, Minerva! I will owl you when I find her."

"I have not given you permission to leave!"

"I don't care."

"Severus, you _must_ explain to me what is going on!"

"Ask Dumbledore, Minerva." His mind was already somewhere else. He'd need his cloak—it was icy cold out. He had his wand. A few potions tucked into his pockets would probably prove handy. He began drawing up his mental list, wondering how many seconds he would lose in gathering everything together. She started to say something, but he didn't hear it. Another shudder of pain jolted through him, although it was much fainter than before.

He turned his back on the Headmistress and broke into a run, his robes fanning out behind him like black sails on a ship. As he ran, he visualized the location of each potion he'd need, so that once he was in his office, it became a mere matter of grabbing the vials while he shouted a summoning spell for the cloak. By the time it was in his hand, he'd already turned around again and begun to head for the stairs.

The walk—or rather, the run—from the Entrance Hall to the Apparition point passed in a daze. Later, he was not able to remember it at all. He only knew that he did, somehow, make it from the castle to the gates. Very shortly afterwards, he'd arrived outside of Grimmauld Place with a loud _crack_ and begun banging on the front door.

Snow was falling softly and the street was empty except for Severus. It was only just beginning to get dark. Surely they would hear him knocking. He could hardly imagine they would be asleep.

Assuming they were in the house at all. If _she_ was gone, would they be as well?

But almost as soon as the doubt had entered his mind, the door swung open to reveal Harry Potter in his customary slovenly Muggle clothing. He had at least finally managed to purchase a pair of blue jeans that fit, but his T-shirt was ridiculously oversized and it hung on him like something a House Elf would wear.

"What are you doing here?" said Harry blankly.

"I've come a-wassailing, Potter," he growled. "Now let me in."

Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped through the door, elbowing past Harry and looking around the front hallway as though it might give some clue as to Miss Granger's whereabouts.

"Who is it, Harry?" Ginny Weasley stood in the kitchen doorway, peering into the hallway, which was murky and poorly lit, as always.

"Professor Snape."

There was a long pause, during which Severus felt himself begin to grow incredibly restless. Finally, Harry cleared his throat. "I suppose you're here to shout at us about leaving school early."

Severus scowled. "As much as it would give me pleasure to outline my exact feelings on discovering that you have yet again willfully disobeyed school rules with no regard for anybody but yourself, I have other business here tonight, Potter. Where is Hermione Granger?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Harry glanced over his shoulder at the Weasley girl, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. "What do you want Hermione for?" he asked, suspicion clear in his voice.

"That is between Miss Granger and myself, Potter. I have been told she is here. Will you produce her?" _Let her be here_, he prayed silently. Better for her to walk through that door and think him an utter fool than for his vision to have the remotest hint of truth.

"I will not," said Harry angrily. "What do you want her for?"

"I told you, boy, that it is none of your business."

"We aren't at school, Professor Snape. This is my house. You can't just barge in here and begin ordering me around without an explanation!"

Another time, he would have been angry because Potter was insubordinate. Now, he was angry because Potter was wasting time. Either way, he was angry.

"And who are you to talk about what people can and can't do, Potter?" he sneered. "I was under the impression that _you_ couldn't just waltz away from Hogwarts whenever your own personal schedule dictated."

"If you're here because you think she's br--done something wrong, it'll have to wait until she's back at school, sir," said Harry, moving so that he stood between Severus and the kitchen door. The Weasley girl joined him, effectively blocking his way altogether.

"Oh, so you are _protecting_ her from me, is that it?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"I am beginning to run out of patience. Where is she, Potter?" He took a step closer, his fingers flexing unconsciously, ready to grab his wand at the slightest provocation.

Harry didn't move. "You can't see her, _Snape_."

"I am your teacher and your superior in the Order, and you will address me with the respect that is due to me!"

"I won't take orders from you in my own home!"

Painfully aware of time slipping by, he pulled his wand out and pointed it at the boy's throat. "Tell me where she is!"

"Get out!" shouted Harry, grabbing his own wand from his back pocket. The noise awoke the portrait of Mrs. Black, who immediately began to shriek.

"FILTH! BLOOD TRAITORS! UNWORTHY SCUM AND DEFILERS OF THIS HOUSE!"

"SILENCE, HARRIDAN!" roared Severus, spinning around and blasting the portrait with a flash of green light. To everyone's surprise, Mrs. Black shut her mouth, apparently intimidated by the gaping, scorched hole that had suddenly appeared beside her head. She seemed to feel it was too close a miss for comfort.

Satisfied that the Black family matriarch had been effectively silenced, he turned his attention back to Harry. "Where is she, Potter?" he ground out impatiently. "I warn you, if she is not here and you dissemble as a result of your foolish Gryffindor arrogance and prejudice, you risk her life at the hands of Death Eaters, and your own life at mine. Lily's son or not, if you put her in any more danger, I--will--_kill_--you."

Harry's mouth fell open and his eyes, suddenly, got very wide. "Death Eaters?" he repeated stupidly. "What do you mean, Death Eaters?"

"Even you should be able to understand what I just said, Potter, and if you are too stupid even for that, I will not waste my time searching for simpler words. For the last time, _is she here_?"

"No."

Severus' attention was diverted from Harry for the first time since he entered the house. Ginny Weasley had hung her head and drawn very close to Potter, as though ashamed of her admission.

"Where is she?" he said urgently. "Tell me now, girl. We're wasting precious time!"

She moistened her lips with her tongue, hesitating. "Australia."

He knew, rationally speaking, that he did not remain silent for long. Subjectively, though, it seemed as though eternity suddenly stretched out before him, measured only by the impossibly loud, impossibly slow throbs of his heartbeat.

"Where?" he finally whispered, his voice dry and raspy.

"Australia," the girl repeated miserably. Harry put his arm around her shoulder.

He reached desperately through his mind, searching for some logical reason why she might have gone to Australia, of all the accursed possible places for her to have gone.

"Why?" He closed his eyes miserably. It was a rhetorical question, but the two children standing before him didn't seem to realize it.

"To see her parents," said Harry softly. "She had a fight with Ron. It's complicated. She wouldn't tell us before she left, but she wrote it down for Ginny—"

"Where? Let me see the parchment, girl. What address?"

"No address. It only said 'Australia' and nothing else."

"And her parents live there, you say? Are they not British?" He'd never taken much interest in the home life of Gryffindors before. It was the first time in his life that he'd had reason to regret it. If her parents were in Australia and she'd gone to Australia… he wondered about the two other people he'd seen, the ones that Damien had killed. The man's face had been distorted by pain and the woman's had been covered in blood. There was no way for him to analyze what they'd looked like, whether there was some physical similarity between them and Miss Granger.

But he knew, somehow, that if she'd gone after her parents, they were by far the most likely to have been tortured and killed by a mad Death Eater who couldn't accept that the Dark Lord was gone.

"They _are_ British, only… well, Hermione obliviated them before we left to look for the Horcruxes. She wanted them safely out of the country and she wanted people to think she'd left Britain as well."

"Ah." His heart sank. He had all of Australia to search, then, and he had no idea where to even begin. He began to fear that he'd embarked on a hopeless errand. At the same time, though, his mind was already racing, beginning to plot out the fastest way to get to Australia, the most logical way to begin the search.

Harry shuffled his feet. "I don't know what she's going to do when she gets to them. They're not even supposed to remember that she exists. She even changed their names."

He stepped forward before he knew what he was doing, seizing the boy's shoulders and staring into his face. "Changed their names to what? To _what_, Potter? Do you remember? What was the name?"

"I don't. I'm sorry, sir," Harry's face contorted with anguish and worry. "I didn't realize she was in so much danger. I didn't—"

"Think, Potter? You rarely do," he whispered, his voice soft and dangerous. "More foolish minds than mine might have thought that you would learn a little caution after hearing of Lee Jordan's fate, but it's clear to me that you never will learn."

"It was Willkins." Severus looked up, wondering how long Ronald Weasley had been standing in the kitchen door and listening to them. "Wendell and Monica Willkins."

"How the hell did you know that?" asked his sister in disbelief.

Weasley shrugged. "I helped her pick the names out."

Yet again, sharp pain coursed through Severus' body and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to show any sign of the momentary, unexpected agony that came and went so quickly. "Goodbye, Potter." He turned back towards the door. Portkey. A Portkey would be the fastest way to get there, if only he could catch one that left immediately.

"Professor Snape?"

He stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

"Will she be okay?"

"Damien Wilkes is an evil man, Harry," he said softly as he slipped out the door, wishing that he could think of something comforting to say.

Getting to the Ministry was a matter of seconds, as there was nobody to avoid on the street when he Apparated. He nearly threw his wand at the inspector and then stood there so angrily and (apparently) so menacingly that the timid little witch seemed unable to perform her duty at all for a few moments. He remembered her vaguely—a Hufflepuff, in her second year when he began teaching. She, apparently, remembered him quite clearly. Her hand shook violently when she finally returned his wand.

The lift operator also recognized him, judging by the sudden pallor of his face when Severus appeared. He smiled grimly. "Portkey Station, Sellers. Quickly, if you don't mind." Gryffindor. Older than the Wand Inspector. Hadn't come to much, apparently.

"Sublevel 2," said Sellers. "Portkey Station, Professor Snape."

He didn't recognize the portly, middle-aged wizard who sat at the welcome desk. Whoever he was, the royal blue robes clashed horribly with his skin. He was balding and rather mouse-like. In fact, he reminded Severus unpleasantly of Peter Pettigrew.

"Welcome to the British Ministry of Magic Portkey Station. Arrivals or Departures, sir?"

"Departures."

"Name, please?"

"Severus Snape."

The Ministry wizard checked a list, hiding a yawn behind one fist as he did so. "Mmm, Snape, Snape. Severus Snape?"

He gritted his teeth. "That is what I said."

"Well," he said finally. "You don't have a reservation."

All of Wizarding Britain had apparently decided to conspire against him. "I could have told you that myself, had you asked," he growled.

"You'll need to make a reservation."

"I understand that. I am quite prepared to make a reservation."

"Where to?"

"Australia."

Slowly, the wizard dug through piles of parchment until he located another list. "Next Portkey for Australia leaves in three hours."

He groaned. "Three hours? Are you sure?"

He checked the list again, just as slowly as before. "Yes, yes I'm quite sure. Three hours. I'll just put you down for that, then. Severus Snape. It'll be forty Galleons."

"No thank you."

"Eh? You just said you wanted a reservation, didn't you?"

"I have not got three hours. This is an emergency."

"Well, I'm afraid you won't find a faster way to get to Australia. I'm just going to put your name down—"

"Don't bother." He glanced around, feeling as though he were trapped in an ever-tightening snare. On a sudden inspiration, he grabbed the departure schedule right out of the Ministry wizard's hand. Before the dumpy little man could react, Severus touched his wand to the parchment and shouted "_Portus!"_

It glowed softly for a moment and he dropped it on the desk with a grim, satisfied nod.

"Here now, you can't do that! Unauthorized Portkeys aren't allowed!"

"Hence the name, I should think," he said smoothly, reaching out and touching his fingertip to the paper. It glowed again, something jerked in his stomach and then he was falling through space.

It was the longest Portkey journey he'd ever taken, and he found time before it was over to hope that he'd got it right and to worry that he hadn't. Eventually, though, he sighted something that looked like reality, and then it began to coalesce around him until he was floating downwards steadily and then his feet found solid ground once more.

If the Ministry didn't want people creating their own Portkeys to satisfy their own schedule, he decided, they really shouldn't post coordinates for Portkey Stations in other countries right on the walls like they did.

The Station was nearly deserted, except for a single witch. She was tall and skinny and appeared to be the Australian counterpart to the fat, balding wizard he'd just dealt with.

"Welcome to the Brisbane Portkey Station," she said in a bored voice. "Please present your wand for inspection."

He placed his wand on her desk and she picked it up, twirling it idly and then tapping it with her own.

"I'm looking for someone," he said in a voice that he hoped conveyed the proper level of romantic desperation. "My… fiancée. I was delayed at work and couldn't Portkey along with her. She has been through, hasn't she? I'm quite anxious to be in touch with her…"

She put the wand back down on the desk and jotted a note as to its composition. "Name, please?"

"Mine, or hers?" Years of practice at espionage had trained him in the art of acting a part and he asked the question with the same bumbling sort of anxiety that he imagined Ronald Weasley using in the same situation.

"Yours," said the witch, sounding more bored than ever and gesturing to the ledger on which she'd written the specs for his wand.

"Severus Snape. Do you think you could just have a look through that list and let me know for sure that she made it through safely?"

"I'm sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "It's our policy to protect the privacy of all witches and wizards coming through our Station."

He frowned, doing what he could to channel his irritation into his Weasley impersonation. "But she wouldn't want to be private from me! We're going to be married, you see."

"That's very nice, sir. Enjoy your stay in Brisbane." He graced her with his darkest scowl, but she ignored him completely. Finally he gave up and headed for the lift, unsure of what to do next.

Brisbane was a logical choice, within Australia. He'd briefly considered a Portkey to Sydney, but from what he knew of Damien Wilkes, Sydney would hold less appeal. In the days when Australia had still been a destination for prison-ships from Britain, the British Wizarding world had been engaged in a fierce debate over the use of Dementors to guard prisons. It was ultimately, of course, decided that they were useful if kept under control, and Azkaban became the location of choice for incarcerating wizards.

Before the debate was resolved, though, wizards had established their own system of prison ships and transported some of the darkest wizards of the age to Australia. The Wizarding penal colony was hidden within the Muggle penal colony of Brisbane, much as Diagon Alley was hidden within London.

Unlike the rest of Australia, the Wizarding population of Brisbane had never quite got past its history, and it was a hotbed of dark magic. That, of course, was one reason for Voldemort's popularity in the area. An entire Wizarding community made up of Malfoys and their cousins would have been more pleasant.

He waited impatiently for the lift, which was moving with a slowness that surely must have been deliberately calculated to annoy. If only he knew where to go next. He tried once more to find her in his mind, but she was gone. Unreachable. Even the odd flashes of pain had stopped, which made him feel vaguely panicky. She could not be dead. He simply was not willing to admit the possibility.

As the lift doors finally began to creep open, he had a brief moment of inspiration. There was no operator in the lift, so he turned and approached the thin Australian witch once more, regretting that there was nobody else to ask.

"I beg your pardon," he said as politely as he could, given his state of mind. "But could you direct me to the nearest all-hours owl post office? There's someone I need to be in touch with."

She raised her eyebrows. "Out the front door, take a left, follow the street for three blocks and then take a right. Two blocks down. It's camouflaged as a pet shop."

"Thank you." He inclined his head briefly and dashed for the lift again, making it to the doors just as they finally squeaked closed again. He pressed the button. They didn't open. He pulled his watch out of his front pocket and checked it apprehensively. An hour and a half had passed since he'd left Minerva. It felt like longer, but even a mere hour and a half was too long, in his mind. If only the connection was like the Dark Mark and he could simply Apparate to where she was…

He shuddered. No, far better that it not be so.

Once again, the lift doors opened and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the lobby and waiting for the infernal thing to close and begin its trek downwards. The wait seemed interminable, but finally he stepped out into a large, empty atrium. It was nearly silent, which Severus supposed was natural for five o'clock in the morning. He found the front doors and transferred his wand from his left sleeve to his right hand, hiding it carefully, half in his palm and half up his sleeve.

He found the post office with little difficulty. It was manned by a single, tiny wizard who reminded him of an incredibly hairy version of Professor Flitwick. He jumped up the moment Severus entered and waved cheerily. "Good morning!" His eyes moved over the black robes and cloak. "Got something for the post?"

Severus frowned and nodded. The shop smelled of wood shavings and rodent urine. The proprietor chuckled. "You're quite a dark character. Right this way. It's two sickles for an owl within sixty miles. Price goes up from there."

He placed two sickles on the counter and picked up a piece of parchment and a quill from a pile that sat just behind the counter with a sign indicating it was for customers. Quickly, he jotted down a pleading note to Vega Tibb, folding it and addressing it with what he hoped was the correct direction. He thought he'd had it memorized, but somehow it had gone out of his head. If anybody in the Order knew where he could find Damien Wilkes, it would be Vega, who had trailed him from Britain to France and then on to Australia.

As the shopkeeper opened a window and let Severus' hired owl hop through it, he considered asking if the tiny little man had heard of a Willkins living anywhere nearby. He had no idea how Damien had found Miss Granger. It might have been a mere fluke, for surely even he hadn't known to look for her parents in Australia, under assumed names.

Voldemort had placed Damien Wilkes on a small task force assigned to wreaking as much havoc and bloody mayhem as possible. All of them had been directed to learn everything they could about members of the Order, including what they looked like. If she hadn't disguised herself, Damien might well have simply bumped into her and decided on a mad whim to follow her and do what damage he could.

If she hadn't disguised herself, and she lived, Severus was going to kill her for being a fool.

Ignoring the shopkeeper's attempt at making small talk, Severus returned to the street. He was going to have to venture into the center of Brisbane's Wizarding society, and he didn't look forward to it.

Something sharp poked into his back.

"Good morning, Snape," growled a voice that was both familiar and unfamiliar. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Wand out in the middle of the street, Wilkes?" he clucked his tongue in disappointment. "You're getting sloppy."

"Shut your filthy mouth, you half-blood traitor!" The sharp something (presumably Wilkes' wand) poked him harder. It was painful. "I've been watching the Portkeys since I found the mudblood," he said conversationally. "Should have known you'd be the one to come after her."

"Where is she, Damien?"

The wand jabbed into his back again. He took the hint and started walking. "Oh, don't worry, Snape," said Damien Wilkes. "I'll take you to her."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I concede that I might be evil. I promise that in another chapter or two, Hermione's life will stop getting continually worse. 

Note on "A-Wassailing": Think Christmas caroling, only with alcohol and lots more fun. http:// en. wikipedia. org /wiki /Wassailing has some info on it.

Many, many thanks to all reviewers, and especially to Renita Leandra, who kept me company while I wrote and gave me good advice and lots of much-needed cheerleading. If not for her, this chapter would not have been finished until tomorrow at the earliest.


	32. The Other Half

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 32: The Other Half**

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The Portkey Station was busy, although Hermione seemed to be one of the only people traveling to Australia. She sat on a bench alone, waiting. At first she tried to read, but it became clear very soon that it was an exercise in futility. She was far too angry and hurt to focus on a book. Instead, she began taking stock of her surroundings. She'd never been to the Portkey Station before, and she studied it with the same fascination that most Muggle-borns studied Wizarding parallels to the Muggle world.

It was a cross between a train station and an airport, she decided. The ceilings were a bit low and the room was very brightly lit. Everything was white and clean, and there were Wizarding travel posters plastered over most of the walls. Each of them had different moving images of fabulously attractive witches and wizards doing things like touring Roman temples or taking cruises that highlighted the locations of famous events in Wizarding history.

There were several rows of small, white tables. Each of these tables held a different item—crumpled up newspapers, broken bottles, even an old tire that appeared to have been fished out of a stream. Large signs hung above each one, listing the destination to which the Portkey was linked, and whether the next activation would be for an arrival or a departure. Occasionally, small groups of people would appear around these tables and the word 'Arriving' would magically erase itself from the sign, to be replaced with 'Departing.'

Australia's Portkey was a rusty can. Hermione didn't like the idea of having to touch it. The remnants of some sort of disgusting sludge still clung to the inside of it and if she got too near, she fancied she'd be able to smell the rotting food.

A small, disheveled-looking witch in overlarge glasses took a seat beside her on the bench, giving the Australia Portkey the same sort of disgusted once-over that Hermione had. She clutched a large carpet bag and nodded curtly at Hermione, but didn't attempt to strike up a conversation. She didn't seem to be looking forward very much to her trip.

Hermione, for her part, couldn't decide if she was looking forward to it or not. Obliviating her parents had been Ron's suggestion, and it had seemed like the only logical course of action at the time. She needed to get them out of the country and find some way to keep them from attempting to contact her. But she hadn't known then that the Order had been willing to hide Harry's family, and she couldn't help but wonder if they would have done the same for her, if she'd only thought to ask. By the time they'd confided their plans to Mr. Weasley, the deed had already been done and her parents had departed for Brisbane, leaving the sale of the house in the hands of their solicitor.

She wasn't at all sure she'd be able to undo the memory charm, although she'd told Harry at the time that she could. Even if she _was_ able to, she didn't know what sort of reaction they'd have, once they knew. It had been an awfully heavy-handed approach, after all.

But she needed them so badly. A lump formed in her throat at the thought, and her eyes began to sting. It wasn't only that Ron had been cruel and jumped to conclusions. She'd carried her secret so close to her heart for so long that it was painful to pull it away, like removing a scab that tore still-living skin off with it. Ever since fifth year, she'd been forced to play a part that no longer came naturally. By the time they'd started their quest for the Horcruxes, she was already beginning to fall apart under the strain of it.

She'd done it so well, though. Nobody had even noticed that anything was wrong. Her mother had commented that she was a little more quiet than usual, but she'd ascribed it to over-work at school. She took a twisted sort of pride in having hidden her secret so well, but it had also seemed like the crowning injustice that after everything that had happened, no one had ever seen her clearly enough to discover the wound that festered in her soul.

She closed her eyes, thinking of the summer after fifth year. The first night she was home, she'd gone to bed quite early and had a nightmare so awful that it woke her up. Unable to get back to sleep, she'd crept into her parents' bedroom. Her father was already snoring, but her mother had been sitting up with a single light on, reading a medical journal.

Hermione had crawled into the bed, curling up and laying her head on her mother's stomach. Familiar, slightly wrinkled hands had stroked the top of her head gently, bringing back a rush of memories from her youth when Mrs. Granger had comforted her when she came home from primary school in tears because of the teasing from other children.

"What's the matter, Hermione?" her mother had asked, and she'd mumbled some half-truth about the nightmare. One of the hands patted her gently and then took up the journal again, beginning to read out the article to her in a soothing, steady voice. Eventually she fell asleep and awoke only when her mother shook her gently awake and sent her back to bed.

"Portkey to Brisbane, Australia, departing in five minutes," said a magically amplified voice, jarring her out of her reverie. A younger witch and wizard had joined them on the bench, quite obviously going on vacation. From the way they were pawing at each other and from their shy giggles, Hermione guessed it was a honeymoon trip. She avoided looking at them.

The Portkey journey itself was unremarkable, except for its length. Having grown rather used to the generally instantaneous nature of Wizarding travel, she'd never given much consideration to the idea that the speed of it was related to distance and not just to magic. It seemed to be yet another one of those little things about the Magical world that purebloods took for granted and Muggle-borns were left to discover on their own.

It was evening in Australia, and the Station was loud with the noise of people coming and going. A tired-looking young witch with bright red hair cleared her throat as the group from London arrived. "Welcome to the Brisbane Portkey station," she droned. "Please present your wands for inspection."

They all shuffled over to her desk, handing over their wands in turn and giving the witch their names, which were duly logged along with the composition of the wands. Once Hermione had hers in hand again, she felt a sudden misgiving. She wasn't entirely sure she should have been so forthright. She didn't want to be followed, after all.

Not that the Order or the Aurors would have much trouble tracking her anyway, but Harry, Ron and Ginny on their own certainly would, if she'd only taken a few steps to disguise her identity. She sighed. Too late at that point, anyway. At least nobody in Australia knew who she was, and once she'd left the Portkey Station, her friends wouldn't know where to go. None of them knew where her parents lived.

She got into the lift, careful not to jostle anyone else with the bulk of her knapsack. They all got off in a large, spacious lobby that was also crowded with people. She assumed she was in the Australian Ministry building, but she didn't know for sure, and there were no signs that gave any sort of indication. Not that it mattered.

A blond wizard bumped into her, so hard that it knocked her over. He stopped and helped her up, apologizing profusely in an accent that sounded far more British than Australian. When she pushed her hair back from her face, he gave her an odd look, but merely wished her good day and continued on to accomplish whatever task he'd been about before their encounter. After brushing herself off, she found a restroom and changed out of her jumper and into summer clothes.

Once she'd made it out of the Ministry building, she Apparated to her parents' house. Early in the summer, on a day when she was feeling particularly lonely, she'd found a phone booth and telephoned Australian Information, locating and then writing down the address and telephone number for her parents. She knew she wasn't ready to go after them, but it was some comfort to know that when she _was_ ready, she'd know where to go.

Standing outside of their home, however, she hesitated.

It was one thing to have the address written down on a bit of paper. It was another thing entirely to be standing in front of the place where they now lived. It was entirely unfamiliar and alien to her. She wondered if they would be unfamiliar as well, now that they didn't remember her. Would their personalities have changed? Their likes and dislikes? Their interests?

She could see lights through the window, and two silhouetted figures moving back and forth through something that looked like a kitchen.

"Come on, Hermione," she said aloud, drawing a deep breath. "You're a Gryffindor. Just do it."

Gathering every last ounce of bravery that she had, she walked up to the door and knocked. She heard muffled voices within, followed by footsteps, and then the door opened to reveal her father, who looked down at her with a puzzled expression. She swallowed, wondering exactly what to say next.

"Can I help you?" he said, gazing down at her with a puzzled expression.

"Who is it, Wendell?" said Hermione's mother, coming up behind her husband. Hermione simply stared at them, the lump in her throat so tight that she couldn't speak. She knew that if she tried, she would only break down.

William Granger—or was he really Wendell Willkins now?—furrowed his brow. "Are you looking for someone?"

She shook her head. Who could she possibly be looking for? There would be no way to explain to them how she knew who they were. She hadn't thought as far as a cover story that would get her into the house. The idea that she might need to ask before being let in to her parents' home was so foreign to her that it simply hadn't entered her mind. She thought quickly.

"I'm sorry, but could I—er—could I use your phone?" she whispered, managing (barely) to get the words out without choking on them. "My mobile's gone dead."

Her mother smiled. "I suppose you can. Although I warn you, if you're really a murderer here to do us in, my husband will overpower you in a second."

Hermione answered the smile weakly. "Thanks so much," she managed. Some things hadn't changed, apparently, and that would make it easier. Her parents had always had a soft spot for lost children, and she was certain that she probably looked quite lost at the moment. They stepped aside and let her in, closing the door behind her, but not locking it.

"The phone's right through here, dear. Do come in."

Hermione followed them into the tidy kitchen. It was cool and pleasant after the heat outside, and it smelled sweet and familiar, like home. Her father gestured to the phone and she hesitated. She didn't have much of a plan beyond asking to make a call so that she could get into the house. What she should do next was still unclear to her.

She could feel her wand, carefully concealed at the small of her back, but she couldn't bring herself to pull it out and restore their memories. It suddenly occurred to her that they might be so furious with everything that she'd done that they might even turn her out. It had seemed so clear at the time that Obliviating them was her only option, but it hadn't been, in the end. She felt uncertain and hesitant, wondering for the first time whether they might find her violation of their minds an unforgivable act, even if done out of a loving desire to protect them.

She kept still for so long that her mother finally cleared her throat awkwardly and asked: "Is something wrong?"

Hermione felt herself twitch. "Oh. No. Only—well, yes," she admitted, deciding she could mix a bit of truth in with the lie. "I… need to get in touch with my mum and dad. But I'm not exactly sure they'll be happy to hear from me." She didn't need to make any effort to produce the tears that now swam in her eyes. Her mother made a soft, sympathetic noise.

"Oh, my dear," she said gently. "What's the matter?"

Hermione looked at her mother, whose gaze was as tenderly maternal as it had ever been when she recognized her daughter. She felt that she ought to just pull her wand out and fix things without further preamble. But suddenly, she didn't have the nerve, Gryffindor bravery notwithstanding.

"I…ran away," she said slowly, the words somehow coming of their own accord, so painfully close to the truth that she could barely get them out. "I'm not sure they'll want me to come back… only, so much has happened since I left, and I can't stay away anymore. I miss them so much," she added, almost in a whisper. Her voice quavered and she fought desperately not to cry. It was far too easy to say these things to her mother, to forget that the woman sitting in front of her viewed her as a complete stranger, and not as a beloved daughter.

"Of course you miss them, so close to Christmas," said her mother sympathetically. "You poor thing. How long has it been since you've seen them?"

"Over a year. I've wanted to go back and see them again for so long, but I couldn't." Tears were beginning to slide down her cheeks now, no matter how valiantly she strove against them. "I just want to see my mum again, but I don't think she'll want to see me, not after everything that's happened," she choked out, barely able to speak for crying.

Before she knew it, there were warm arms enveloping her and for the first time in a year and a half, her nose was buried in bushy hair just like her own, although its steel-gray color no longer matched hers. The warm, familiar smell of her mother overwhelmed her completely and she began to cry in earnest, clinging to her mother with all of her strength, forgetting completely that she ought to be behaving as though she was in a stranger's kitchen and looking for some other, imaginary parents.

"There, there," her mother murmured soothingly, reaching up to stroke Hermione's hair with the gesture that she remembered so well. "Don't fret. I'm sure she misses you terribly."

"N-no she doesn't," sobbed Hermione miserably. "She never even thinks about me, I know it."

"What's your name, dear?"

"H-Hermione."

"Oh, how lovely, Hermione," her mother said softly. "Shakespeare, isn't it? I've always loved that name." The arms tightened around her comfortingly. "Now listen to me, Hermione. Of _course_ your mother thinks about you. We've never had children of our own, you know, but we always wanted a daughter, and I know that if we'd had one, there wouldn't be anything she could do to stop us loving her and thinking of her all the time, even if she were gone away somewhere."

Hermione, who'd gone for nearly two days without sleep and with barely any food, finally reached her breaking point. She clung to her mother, crying bitterly over everything that had happened—the months of near-starvation, the mistakes, the deaths, the torment by Draco Malfoy that she'd been forced to lie about ever since her fifth year.

She didn't know how much time passed while she cried, but eventually her father laid a hand tentatively on her shoulder, and offered her a handkerchief. Slowly, she began to regain some control of herself, and she dried her eyes and face, drawing back from her mother with some embarrassment as she remembered their supposed lack of relationship.

"Have a seat," her father said gently. "You look awfully skinny… Hermione, was it? When's the last time you've eaten a proper meal?"

"Oh," said Hermione stupidly. When _had_ she last eaten a proper meal? Hours ago, she supposed, but it felt like so much longer. When was the last time she'd had the appetite to really eat the proper meals that had been provided for her? She shrugged. "I don't get hungry much."

"Nonsense," said her mother. "Take a seat and I'll fix you up something. I'm Monica, by the way, and that's Wendell. Are you from Britain originally? I recognize your accent. We only moved over here ourselves about a year and a half ago."

Hermione took the offered chair hesitantly. "Yes," she said softly. "So did my parents."

"How would you like a sandwich and a cup of tea? It isn't much, I know, but tomorrow's our shopping day and we're running a bit low at the moment," said her mother, already slicing bread and turning the electric kettle on. Hermione watched her in silence, noticing and appreciating for the first time the economy of movement in every action. Her mother, it dawned on her, was a graceful woman.

"So," said her father, taking a seat beside her and giving her a kindly smile. "We'll get you fed, and if you need a place to stay tonight, you're more than welcome with us. We've got a guest room all furnished up and if it's not too far, we can give you a lift home tomorrow."

"Not far," said Hermione faintly. The back of the chair was pressing her wand uncomfortably against her spine. She needed to just do it. Mentally, she rehearsed the incantation and wand movements. She'd managed to Obliviate them without subjecting them to the same fate as Gilderoy Lockhart. She prayed with everything in her that she could reverse the memory charm with equally good results.

Her mother poured a cup of tea and set it down on the table, along with a sandwich on a plate and an apple, cut into neat slices. "Sorry I can't offer you any sugar," she said wryly. "We're dentists, you see. We don't keep it in the house."

"That's all right. I don't take sugar. My parents are dentists too," said Hermione.

Her father laughed. "That's quite a coincidence. What are their names? You never know, we might have met them, if they practice in the area."

"Actually," she began—but she never got to finish the sentence. She heard a loud banging noise, and a moment later there was a tall, wild-eyed man standing in the doorway. He looked strangely familiar, but Hermione couldn't place it, quite. Her father jumped to his feet, instinctively moving to stand in front of Hermione and her mother.

"What do you think you're doing?" he said, with a hostility that Hermione didn't recognize. "Get out of here at once, or I shall call the police!"

The man's lips pulled back into a horrible sort of grimace and he laughed. Hermione, staring at him over her father's shoulder, thought it made him look eerily similar to Sirius Black, the first time they'd ever seen him. He was reaching into his jacket, and for one mad second she thought that he must have a gun, until he withdrew his hand again, clutching a long, thin wand.

Without a second thought, she grabbed her own wand, entirely convinced that he meant them nothing but harm. "Get down!" she shouted, grabbing her father's shirt and pulling him backwards. "Behind the table!"

"Hermione?" said her mother confusedly. "What's going on? What's all this about?"

"Behind the table!" she repeated desperately. "For God's sake!"

The man was laughing again, his wand moving to point directly at them. Her parents seemed to be frozen where they were, and she sidestepped her father, planting herself firmly in front of him, her wand raised. Every one of her frayed nerves was on alert and adrenaline had utterly done away with her fatigue.

"Hermione Granger," he said poisonously, the laughter stopping as abruptly as it had begun. A shock of blond hair fell over one of his eyes. She had a wild thought that he'd be rather good looking, if not for the horrible scars that she could see on his face, now he was close to her, and for his eyes, which were terrifying. He was very clearly mad. Even Bellatrix Lestrange, she realized uncomfortably, had not been mad like this man was.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice sounded small and pathetic compared to his. He chuckled softly, drawing up the sleeve that covered his left arm. His skin was a mass of crisscrossing scars and tattoos of arcane symbols. In the center of them all she saw the livid scar that had once been the Dark Mark. It looked raw and painful, outlined now in bright red instead of in black.

Her eyes widened. A renegade Death Eater, then—but who? She didn't recognize him, although she knew that she wasn't precisely an authority. And how had he found her?

"Ah yes, you recognize _that_, don't you, little girl?" He smiled cruelly. "You ought to be more careful, my pet. Harry Potter's best friend shouldn't travel all by herself."

Ah, God, she was stupid! Stupid, foolish Gryffindor recklessness, running off to Australia without so much as a thought for subtlety or disguise. She despised herself in that moment. She'd rushed away blindly, putting both herself and her parents at horrible risk. She ought to have known better.

_Yet another item to add to the catalogue of Hermione Granger's failures_, she thought bitterly.

And in that moment, he struck. His arm flew downwards in a slashing motion and a sickly-looking light burst from his wand. Without thinking, she parried, throwing up a shield charm so quickly that she didn't even realize she was doing it until his spell was already ricocheting into the kitchen wall. It exploded there, leaving a nasty crater. Her mother screamed, and she was dimly aware that her parents had finally obeyed her command and got behind the table.

He was laughing again, an inhuman sound that was terribly out of place in that clean, utterly domestic kitchen. As he laughed, his arm stabbed forward and thick ropes began to fly towards her. Her wand seemed to move almost of its own accord and suddenly the ropes had become snakes and turned on him.

"_Diffindo!_" he shrieked, and the snakes fell to pieces, turning to smoke before they even hit the floor. "Where'd you learn that one, eh?" he asked, panting. "That's a pretty little trick to play, my precious. Been taking lessons from Death Eaters?"

"_Stupefy_!" she yelled in answer, taking advantage of his surprise. He dived out of the way, beginning to laugh again.

"What'll it be next, pet? _Expelliarmus_, perhaps?"

Her wand jerked out of her hand and flew to him. He caught it neatly, tucking it nonchalantly into his belt.

"Oh God," she muttered helplessly. "_Accio_ wand. _Accio_ wand!"

But the wand barely shuddered, and it certainly did not return to her hand. She could hear her mother sobbing in terror behind her and she made a desperate lunge at him, grabbing at the wand. There was no way she could protect her parents without it, and it was worth sacrificing her life to try.

He snarled wordlessly and with a wave of his wand he sent her flying to the side. She crashed against the cabinets and fell to the floor with a groan. It hurt to breathe, and she thought she'd heard her ribs crack. She struggled to catch her breath again, feeling as though she were caught in some nightmare, unable to make her body do what she desperately needed it to do.

"_Incarcerous_!" he yelled, and this time she had no way to protect herself against the ropes that appeared at the end of his wand. They wrapped around her tightly, digging deep into her flesh. This time, she definitely heard the crack of a rib as the ropes squeezed her chest, and she gasped in pain.

"I'll deal with you last, girl," he said, not sparing so much as a second glance for her. His eyes were fixed on the overturned table, behind which her parents were hiding. Hermione looked at them—her father had thrown his body over her mother's, covering her protectively and squeezing his own eyes closed with a look of terror that unnerved Hermione more than anything else that she'd seen that night.

The Death Eater pointed his wand at the table, crying "_Reducto_!" Both of her parents flinched horribly as the table shattered into tiny fragments, leaving them exposed and vulnerable on the kitchen floor. "Stand up, you worthless lump," he hissed, stepping forward over the remains of the table to kick at her father's ribs. "I'll make you curse and rue the day that you spawned that mudblood brat of yours, Granger!"

Her mother's sobs grew louder and Hermione looked away, unable to watch. She struggled desperately against the ropes, but they only seemed to grow tighter as she did and the pain in her chest increased terribly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," gasped her father. "I don't understand. Please, you've got the wrong man. It's a mistake, I swear to you, it's a mistake!"

The Death Eater laughed derisively. "Not so proud of your little Hermione are you now, eh? You should have killed her before your disgusting wife ever spat her out from between her fat legs."

"No!" he shouted in desperation. "I'm not her father! We've never seen her before tonight! You're making a mistake!"

"Oh I think not, Granger. Touching, though, to know that you'd turn on the girl when things start to get bad. Don't you agree?" he said, addressing Hermione once again. She kept her eyes closed, trying to focus instead on the feeling of the sweat that was beginning to drip down her face as she struggled fruitlessly against the ropes.

"Look at me, girl!" he screamed, and something in his voice frightened her into obedience. "I won't have you turning away, not when the show is all for your benefit, my love. If you so much as close your eyes, I'll take it out in their blood!"

She stared helplessly, forcing herself to watch as he dragged her parents apart from one another. Her father's body slammed into the opposite wall with a crunching noise that made her sick to her stomach. He groaned weakly and his eyes fluttered closed.

It was, she thought, a mark of the Death Eater's madness and cruelty that his face did not change in the slightest when he cast the Cruciatus curse on her father.

His scream was heartwrenching, and Hermione longed to close her eyes. They filled with tears once again at the sight of his kindly face so distorted by pain was agony, but she blinked them away, lest the Death Eater see that she wasn't watching and make things even worse.

The Death Eater did not withdraw the spell, and her father's body began to twitch in a dreadful sort of seizure. His mouth was bloody from the gnashing of his teeth, and he screamed and screamed until Hermione began to pray that he would lose consciousness. The Death Eater merely stood there, his wand trained on her father's body, licking his lips with a look of blissful relish.

After what seemed like an impossibly long time, it stopped. Her father lay gasping on the floor, his body still twitching and shaking, his eyes rolled back in his head. She wondered fleetingly if this was what Frank Longbottom had looked like after Bellatrix Lestrange had finished having her way with him. The thought horrified her.

"D'you like that, my sweet?" the Death Eater murmured, glancing at her with a cruel smile. He turned away from her father, moving his eyes down instead to the spot where her mother lay, cowering on the floor.

"Please," she whispered, not daring to look up at him. "Please, spare me."

"I will not," he said. "The parents of Hermione Granger will have no mercy from me."

"But we aren't her parents! I swear to you, I've never seen her before tonight!"

"Lies!" He kicked angrily at a piece of the table, sending it flying into a cabinet mere inches from Hermione's head. "Denying your daughter will not save your life!"

"No! You don't understand! I have no daughter!" her mother cried. "For God's sake, you must believe me!_ I have no daughter_!"

"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" roared the Death Eater. "Muggle bitch! _Crucio_!"

"MUM!" Hermione screamed, renewing her struggle against her bindings. "_MUM_! NO! STOP IT!" She couldn't bear it. It was too much. Surely her soul would burst with the agony of it. Her mother's screams burned into her ears until she was sure that she would never be able to hear anything else again. "Please!" she shouted desperately. "Leave her alone! Do anything you want to me, only stop it! STOP IT!"

He lifted the curse from her mother just long enough to swing his arm around and point his wand at her yet again. The ropes surrounding her body burst into flames and burned into her skin as they disintegrated. The ropes had cut off the circulation to her arms and legs and she fell to the floor, moaning and clutching clumsily at the burns.

In the periphery of her vision, she saw her father stirring, attempting to push himself onto his hands and knees. The Death Eater noticed it as well and he spun around again, casting another nonverbal spell at her father. A bright light filled the room and she flung her hands up to cover her face. "No!" she cried, certain that the Death Eater must have killed him. He'd already turned his attention back to her mother, whose screams were starting to sound wet from the blood that was gushing from what once had been her tongue. Hermione had seen her bite through it.

"Look, curse you!" shrieked the Death Eater, and she did, hating herself for witnessing her parents' torture. She gagged at the sight and smell of it, humiliated for her mother's sake, humiliated that the Death Eater should see her covered in her own bodily fluids and stand there mocking her as he did. He stood just outside of her field of vision and she refused to turn her head enough to see him. It was bad enough to see her mother, and more than she could take to see her tormentor.

There was a scuffle as the Death Eater dragged her father back into the center of the room, throwing him down onto his knees beside his wife. Hermione moaned softly, transfixed by the sight, although she longed to look away.

He was laughing cruelly, staring down at them with a bloodlust that rivaled Fenrir Greyback's. And then, without another word, without a warning, he stopped laughing.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" he screamed. And just like that, with a green flash of light and a gentle thud, her father was gone.

Hermione stopped breathing.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" he screamed again, and there was another flash of light, and her mother, too, became impossibly still, blood and saliva still dripping from her mouth. That, somehow, seemed like the crowning indignity, and Hermione had to restrain herself from crawling forward to wipe it away.

A horrible silence fell over the room, more oppressive than the noise of her parents' agonized screams had been. She could not look away from her mother's face, could not stop staring at the twisted, tortured expression that it still held, even in death. Her eyes were open, and empty, and Hermione still couldn't breathe and oh, she desperately hoped that she might drop dead soon, because hell would be a respite after this.

"And now for you, Hermione Granger," said the man, finally giving her his full attention. "Learn what becomes of those who oppose the Dark Lord!"

He said it with such drama, such intensity, clearly intending to frighten her—but Hermione only found it comical. She felt desperate and hysterical, and she began to laugh, unable to stop herself. Her voice was high and shrill and it sounded unnatural, but she laughed for a long time.

"He's dead!" she gasped, her chest heaving as she struggled for air. "You're pathetic!"

He stepped forward and narrowed his eyes, gazing down at her for a moment as though considering her words.

Then he almost smiled. "_Crucio_," he said calmly.

Her last conscious thought was to thank God that it was finally her turn, and then pain overtook her and she could think no more.

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**Author's Notes: **This was absolutely the hardest chapter to write thus far, by a long shot.

Rest assured, she's finally hit rock bottom. From now on, things have to start improving.

Infinite love to all of my reviewers, and endless thanks to RenitaLeandra, who helped me work through some of the kinks and put up with all my whining about how hard it was.

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	33. Angels and Ministers of Grace

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 33: Angels and Ministers of Grace**

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"Where is it?" growled Wilkes, digging his wand painfully into Severus' back. 

"I don't know what you mean, Wilkes," he said. "Looking for the place where you've stowed your captive away? How forgetful of you to have mislaid her."

"Don't play the fool with me, Snape. I've seen that act from you before, and it won't work on me. Where's your wand?"

Severus smirked. "Come now, Wilkes. Have you been in hiding for so long that you've forgotten the basics of disarming an enemy? Let me instruct you. The incantation is--"

"_Expelliarmus_!" shouted Wilkes angrily, but Severus already had his wand out and his shield charm was up before Wilkes even finished speaking. The spell rebounded and the other man's wand flew into his hand—along with another wand, which he assumed belonged to Miss Granger. Severus caught the wands and seized Wilkes by the arm, spinning him around and grabbing his wrists, jerking them upwards until Wilkes grunted in pain.

"Oh, I think not, Damien," he said softly. "I always _was_ too fast for you, if you recall." He pointed his wand downwards, and a length of rope wrapped itself around the man's wrists. Jerking him close, he wrapped one arm around Wilkes' chest so that he could jab his wand into the man's jugular. Now he was the one pressing the sharp point of a wand into flesh. Wilkes stiffened and stopped attempting to struggle.

"Now," he continued, "you will take me to her, and then you will pay in blood for every least bruise that you've inflicted upon her—and if you attempt to escape from me, I swear to you that I will make you regret it for the rest of your very short life." His lips curled into a cruel smile. "I do not think that either the British or the Australian Ministries will investigate too closely, if you turn up dead."

Wilkes let out a soft, snakelike hiss through his teeth. "Traitor," he said bitterly. Severus' smile hardened.

"Undoubtedly," he murmured. "Although in the end, it seems that mine was the most prudent course of action."

"I am not concerned with prudence! It is loyalty that you should have valued!"

Severus thought of Lily, doubting that Wilkes would ever have an inkling of how poignantly true his statement was. He shook his head slowly, looking disappointed. "Really, Damien," he said reproachfully. "Such language from a Slytherin. I'm ashamed of you. Now, you will take me to her. My patience has long since worn thin, old friend." He gave Wilkes' wrists another jerk upwards, twisting his arms almost to their breaking point. "Traitor I may be, but I have not forgotten the lessons that I learned at the feet of your master. Do not underestimate me again."

He kept one hand hooked in the ropes that bound Wilkes' wrists and began to move it cruelly and inexorably upwards. "Tell me where she is, Wilkes. The marrow of a broken bone can prove very useful in certain potions and I am rarely afforded an opportunity to collect it. I'm told that it's very painful for the… donor."

"She's dead!" said Wilkes with a malicious laugh. Severus was suddenly very thankful that Wilkes couldn't see his face, for he was quite sure that his momentary flash of panic had showed all too plainly on his features. Had his fears been confirmed, then? Was he too late?

_Curse the girl and all Gryffindors!_ he thought vehemently.

But no, he'd known Damien Wilkes for too long to accept his word without verification. Pushing Wilkes' back up against a wall, he pointed his wand into the man's face. "I don't think so," he said thoughtfully. Reaching one hand up, he grabbed Wilkes' jaw roughly and forced him to raise his face. "_Legilimens_!" he cried, staring into the wild yellow eyes of his onetime companion.

The images rose swiftly before his mind's eye, and he studied each in turn.

Hermione Granger, bumping into him in the lobby of the Australian Ministry, looking wan and miserable, but still obviously the girl that Wilkes had spent over a year and a half searching for. The feral glee he felt when he realized he'd finally stumbled across her, so far from Britain that it was almost too much to believe. Following her, casting a tracking spell just after she Disapparated and studying the magical signature so that he could follow after her.

Lingering in the shadows as she knocked on the door of the house and was granted entry. Seeing through Wilkes' eyes, Severus crept up to the window and peered through.

He saw a bushy haired, middle-aged woman who bore such a strong resemblance to the girl that he remembered from before the war that neither Wilkes nor Severus could doubt that the woman was Hermione Granger's mother.

He moved as quickly as he could through the prolonged, grisly torture of her parents—their pathetic pleas for mercy and their desperate bewilderment were more than he could stomach. It seemed that she had not found the time to successfully undo her memory charms. He felt bile rising in his throat at the thought of their confusion. It was a scene he'd witnessed so many times in the past, but these Muggles were different. That woman, with Hermione Granger's hair, and that man, with her earnest brown eyes, were a more disturbing sight to Severus than most other things he'd seen in his career as a Death Eater.

Then the girl was screaming in agony, and her body was twitching as the Cruciatus curse attacked all of her nerve endings simultaneously. It was a small mercy that this torture did not last long before she lost consciousness, and Wilkes seemed to finally begin running out of energy. He ripped strips of fabric from her mother's shirt and transfigured them into chains, placing her in a chair and securing her to it. When he was sure she couldn't free herself, he picked up a sandwich off the floor and began to eat it.

After finishing the sandwich, he casually brushed the crumbs off of his chest and picked up the telephone. Severus could hear it ringing, and then a female voice answered.

"Watch the Portkeys," Wilkes said. "And alert me if you recognize anyone coming in from Great Britain." He hung up without waiting for a response, and then turned back to Miss Granger. Severus watched, sifting carefully through the images that swam up before him. Wilkes had leaned on the counter, casually casting _Crucio_ every time she began to revive. At one point he approached her, beginning to move his hands over her body, whispering lecherously in her ear.

An owl tapped on the window, distracting him. He opened it and read the short note that it carried. Then he cast _Stupefy_ on her and Disapparated without another word.

So he had left her alive, then. Severus finally released the spell, his hand still gripping Wilkes' jaw.

"It does you no good to lie to me," he said softly, "but you never did really understand me, my old friend."

Wilkes licked his lips, grimacing in a way that he apparently intended as conspiratorial. "What can a little mudblood like her mean to you anyway, Severus?" he said wheedlingly. "Surely you've not turned your back on all the principles of our House."

"Do—not—use—that—word!" he shouted, slamming his fist into Wilkes' stomach without thinking. The blow made him choke, his face beginning to go red as he struggled to catch his breath.

The first rays of sunlight were beginning to appear in the sky, and Severus heard a car approaching. Reminded that they were wasting time and risking discovery by Muggles, he grabbed Wilkes' arm and Apparated to the house that he'd seen in his mind.

The door was ajar, hanging from only one of its hinges. "Didn't even bother to cover your tracks, Wilkes?" he said silkily. "Really, if the Dark Lord _were_ still alive, I can't imagine that he'd be pleased with your sloppiness. There are Aurors in Australia too, you know."

Pushing Wilkes roughly in front of him, Severus entered the house. The sharp, iron smell of blood stung his nose. He shoved Wilkes into the kitchen, holding him at wandpoint. Miss Granger was awake, and when she saw the Death Eater's face, she let loose a horrible scream.

Severus hadn't exactly anticipated that, and he felt rather foolish for it. He stunned Wilkes and the man fell to the floor in a flash of red light. She stopped screaming when she saw his face, her mouth hanging open in a manner that could have been comical if she didn't look so awful. There were bruises on her face, and bright red stripes stood out on the white skin of her arms. Her clothes seemed to have been burned in places. He stared at her, wetting his lips with his tongue.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he said softly. She simply stared. He wasn't entirely sure that she recognized him.

Carefully, he stepped over the bodies of her parents, trying not to wince as he did so. As he reached out to touch her, she flinched away and he drew back immediately, unsure of what to do. As accustomed as he was to seeing such scenes of carnage, he'd almost never had to deal with their aftermath before, and he felt profoundly out of his depth.

"I am not going to hurt you, Miss Granger," he said quietly, hoping she could believe him.

She lifted her eyes to his face wearily, whispering, "Don't call me that." Her voice was hoarse and rough—strained from too many minutes, or hours, of screaming.

He frowned. "What shall I call you, then?" He wondered if she'd cried out while Wilkes was gone, if she'd attempted to catch the attention of someone outside who might discover and rescue her. Wilkes, of course, had at least remembered to cast a Silencing Charm.

"Anything but that." She spoke in a whisper so low that he had to strain to hear what she said. "Granger isn't my name anymore."

"Do you know who I am?"

She stared at him dully. "Professor Snape."

"Indeed. If I release you, do you think you can walk without help?"

She appeared to consider this for a moment and then tossed her head indifferently, the closest she could come to a shrug in her current incarceration.

"Do not fear," he said, raising his wand. "I will not touch you if it can be helped." He touched the heavy chains and they shuddered and shrank back into strips of fabric, some of them stained brown with dried blood. The moment she was free, she tore at the fabric, shaking them off of herself with a look of utter abhorrence. He stepped back, gazing at her uncertainly.

"I believe you should try to stand," he said, hoping his uncertainty was not entirely obvious to her. She was surely expecting him to be the cool, self-assured Potions Master, the man who had seen it all. He avoided looking at her parents' bodies. "This room is not a place you ought to linger."

Her eyes moved to the center of the room, and he knew she was looking at the spot that he most wished she would avoid.

"I am going to touch you, Miss Gr—Hermione," he said her first name with intense discomfort. "With your permission, I will help you up."

"No," she said tersely. "Don't help me."

Taking only a moment to draw breath, she stood up. For a moment she stood tall, and he was deeply impressed by her resilience. Then her knees began to buckle as if she'd been hit by a Jelly-Legs Jinx and he lunged forward to catch her before she hit the ground, sweeping her into his arms. One arm went under her knees and the other touched her back.

She was wearing long pants, but her shirt was thin and the fabric rode up, exposing the small of her back. Inadvertently, he pressed his palm flat to it, and his bare skin touched hers for the very first time.

He felt like he had when his mother had taken him to buy his first wand. Ollivander had put it into his hands, and magic had coursed through him, tingling all the way up his arm. It had him for the first time with a sense of newfound power, and a new awareness that he was encompassed by something mystical and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Yes, it felt like that—and it also felt nothing at all like that. His soul seemed to have been utterly laid bare before her. It was completely new to him, and he suddenly appreciated fully what it really meant to be connected to her. Touching her did not give him any private knowledge of her mind, but he could see the door behind which it was hidden, and if he so desired, he knew that he could coax it open.

All of these thoughts took perhaps a second or two, and his hand jerked so sharply that he nearly dropped her. She cried out and turned her eyes back onto him, looking at him with the first real spark of emotion that he'd seen since he'd burst into her parents' home. He could not doubt that she'd felt it too, and she looked terrified.

As quickly as he could, he located the sitting room and laid her down on the sofa, backing away from her until he hit the opposite wall.

"Forgive me," he gasped, hardly aware of what he was saying, but feeling as if he'd committed some unforgivable violation. She simply kept staring at him. He was beginning to feel more and more disconcerted by the entire situation. Death Eaters were one thing. Traumatized young women were another thing completely, especially when those young women were Hermione Granger.

There was a noise from the doorway and with a roar of fury, Damien Wilkes threw himself at Severus, tackling him to the floor and choking him with his bare hands. Severus, coughing, drew his wand, but Wilkes snatched it from him roughly. Mustering all of his strength, Severus pushed upwards with his hands, managing to throw Wilkes' body away from him.

The stunner, apparently, had worn off.

Miss Granger's wand was in his pocket and he pulled it out, throwing a Reductor curse at Wilkes the moment it was in his hand. The wand responded almost as well as his own, and Wilkes was thrown backwards in spite of the shield charm that he managed to erect.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" he shrieked, green light exploding from the ebony wand.

"NO!" shouted Severus, diving out of the way at the last moment. He was thankful that it was his own wand Wilkes had stolen. It was clearly being sluggish, which gave him time to avoid the curse. He felt the energy of the spell crackling over his skin as he passed. Another centimeter and he'd have been dead.

There was a tree in the corner. He slashed his arm downwards and with a beautiful, crystalline tinkling noise, a hundred Christmas baubles exploded into sharp fragments and flew directly at Wilkes' face.

Wilkes muttered an incantation that Severus didn't quite catch and the bits of glass all burst into brilliant flames. The room glowed with a weird, flickering light as Wilkes moved his wand in a swift circle. The flames began to coalesce and spin in the air, moving to surround Severus until he was encompassed by dozens and dozens of intensely hot gouts of fire, moving closer to him with each spiral they completed.

"_Glacies Esto!_" he shouted, and all of the flames turned to ice and fell to the ground, shattering harmlessly.

"Is that the best you can do, Severus?" taunted Wilkes, laughing madly as he sent tongues of fire whipping out from his wand. Severus extinguished the fire and summoned a snake. It erupted from the tip of Miss Granger's wand with a loud hiss, fangs bared. He hit it with an engorgement charm and sent it flying at Wilkes' head, growing and swelling as it went.

Wilkes screamed and tried to dodge, but the snake hit him in the chest, by now swollen and heavy enough that it knocked him over. It was writhing frantically, striking blindly in every direction. Wilkes, though, managed to get Severus' wand up and thrust it at the snake, sending it towards Severus instead.

"You're a fool, Damien," he shouted angrily. "A fool who's wasted his life serving a worthless cause!" He vanished the snake and lunged forward, his arm straight and rigid in front of him. A volley of arrows burst from it, whistling towards Wilkes' head. Wilkes waved his wand and the coffee table upended itself, flying in front of him just in time to block the arrows, which embedded themselves in the wood—all except for a few. Several missed the table and flew harmlessly to either side, but one of them hit home and went completely through Wilkes' wand hand, pinning it to the wall behind him.

He screamed in frustration and pain, inadvertently dropping the ebony wand. It fell to the floor and rolled away. Wilkes was left-handed and his sleeve had fallen back, revealing the remains of the Dark Mark that stood out, a crimson stain on his arm.

"Do you know what that is, Wilkes?" hissed Severus, advancing until he was only a few inches away and grinding the tip of his wand into the Mark. "It's slavery. It's rape and torture and death. You could have been a brilliant wizard and you've been reduced to _this_, you sniveling waste of space." He spat on the ground, disgusted.

"I should have known," Wilkes said. "I should have known the minute I saw you with that mudblood bitch Evans on the Hogwarts Express that you'd turn out to be nothing but a cowardly, traitorous betrayer."

"NEVER INSULT LILY EVANS IN FRONT OF ME!" A Jelly-Legs Jinx burst from his wand and Wilkes sagged, supported only by the arrow that pinned his hand to the wall. Severus could see it starting to tear at the flesh between his knuckles, which was unable to bear the weight of a grown man's body.

The tendons in his neck stood out rigidly. He must have been in terrible pain, and Severus suddenly felt that he wouldn't be able to stomach it if the arrow ripped his hand in two. He reached forward, grabbing Wilkes by the shoulder and holding him up, pushing him into the wall for support.

"Don't touch me, you unworthy filth!"

"Look what you've been reduced to," hissed Severus. "This is what you all come to in the end, Damien: serving a madman long after he's dead because you're mad yourself. How I've longed for this moment," he whispered maliciously. "Do you know how many years I've regretted it that the Aurors got to you first? I'm going to kill you, Wilkes, and I'm going to enjoy it."

"Who's mad now, Severus? Still holding a grudge after all these years?" he sneered. "Tell me, did you keep it? Did you preserve it in one of your specimen jars and put it on a shelf somewhere to have it always near you?"

"SILENCE!" His fingernails dug into the flesh of Wilkes' right shoulder so roughly that they tore his shirt and began to pierce his skin.

His eyes moved wildly around, seeking a way to escape, and he kept talking, doing his best to drive Severus past the point where he could still control himself. "Perhaps you charmed it to keep warm and supple so that you could take your pleasure with it, eh Severus? Finally got a chance to live out all your fantasies, did you?"

"Necrophilia was your game, Wilkes, not mine," he snarled.

"Oh, I'm sure you would have made an exception for your precious Evans. Or have you moved on to a new mudblood now? Your tastes certainly don't seem to have improved." He leered sickeningly. "Let's have a bit of fun, Severus, for old times' sake. There's two of them in the kitchen, they probably haven't even begun to stink yet—at least, no more than they ever did, the Muggle filth. How long has it been since you've had it off with another human being even nearby?"

"_Scourgify_," said Severus, feeling a certain pleasure in reliving an old memory from the opposite side. Wilkes' mouth filled with bubbles and he gagged, making choking noises as they erupted over his chin and dripped down his chest. "I told you not to use that word, Wilkes," he said coldly. He silently cast _Levicorpus_, and Wilkes' body jerked into the air, the shaft of the arrow snapping off so that a jagged piece of wood now protruded from between his knuckles.

Wilkes spat out mouthfuls of bubbles again and again, until the spell dissipated. Severus watched it impassively.

"How long will this game continue, Severus?" he mocked. "Have you grown too cowardly to kill even me? Don't hate me as much as you hated Dumbledore, perhaps? You had an easy enough time striking _him_ down. Do it, Severus. I've killed your mudblood's parents and probably broken her forever. Is that not worth a repayment in kind? What will you do when she weeps on your shoulder and recounts the way that they denied her with their last breaths?"

"You're not worth it," said Severus, although he could barely restrain himself.

Almost in the same moment, a voice screamed from behind him.

"_SECTUMAXIMUM PERPETUUM!_" shrieked Miss Granger wildly, and a jet of light passed just a few inches from his head. It slammed into Wilkes' chest and blood suddenly burst from his body as the light cut huge, knifelike gouges into his flesh. He screamed horribly. It seemed that every part of his body was splitting, as though his skin were bursting at its seams. Surprised, Severus unthinkingly ceased his levitating spell and Wilkes' body collapsed into a heap on the floor, blood flowing out from it in an ever-widening pool.

His skin was literally being sliced into ribbons by the spell, and Severus watched in horrified fascination as he bled to death. At his best guess, it took well under a minute for Damien Wilkes to die.

Once upon a time, he might have wept over Wilkes as a brother. They had become Death Eaters at the same time, taking the Dark Mark together and congratulating one another afterwards over their acceptance into Voldemort's circle. He'd been an intelligent, witty man once. He'd been a friend, an eternity ago. Severus turned away, unable to keep looking.

Hermione Granger stood behind him, grasping his ebony wand and panting slightly. There was a look of wild hatred on her face and she stared at Wilkes' body with a mixture of triumph and of loathing—whether of Wilkes or of herself, he couldn't tell.

0 0 0

"Give me the wand, girl," he said, enunciating each word crisply and holding his hand out, palm upwards. Slowly, the realization of what she'd just done began to dawn on her, and she started to shake. She nearly threw the wand at him and then sank back down on the couch, hiding her face from him with her hands. She couldn't bear to see his eyes.

"Oh God," she moaned softly, rocking herself back and forth, overwhelmed by so many emotions that she could no longer keep still. "Oh God… oh _God_…"

The carnage was terrible, far more than anything else she'd ever seen before. Most Death Eaters favored the Killing Curse. She wondered if murder split the soul no matter what method one used. She supposed that it did.

And oh, she had done murder. She could not argue, even to herself, that it was self-defense; he'd been disarmed, his wand hand damaged, suspended in the air. Professor Snape was standing between them and would surely have protected her with his life. She'd murdered him in cold blood, in her parents' home.

For a fleeting moment, she was glad they were dead.

She heard a frantic sort of whimpering, and she realized that it was coming from her own mouth. She heard footsteps slowly approaching her, but she couldn't open her eyes, couldn't look up to see his face. Hermione didn't need her eyes to see the loathing that he would surely feel for her—he, who had gone so many years without committing more violence than he absolutely had to. She was no better than a Death Eater now, and he, of all people, would know it.

The footsteps stopped. She could sense his body, knew it was so close that if she rocked just a little harder, her head would bump into him.

"Miss Gra--Hermione," he said, infusing her name with such loathing that she moaned again, closing her eyes and moving her arms to wrap around herself, squeezing as tightly as she could.

"Don't look at me," she whispered, cringing away from him, unable to bear the unseen weight of his gaze. "For God's sake, don't look at me."

There was a long pause, and then finally he said, "I must contact the Order. It might take some time. You should not remain in this room."

He was going to contact the Order—which meant that he would also be contacting Kingsley Shacklebolt. She wondered wildly how long it would take for them to sentence her to Azkaban. Would she get some level of clemency because the man she'd literally cut down was a Death Eater? She moaned again. Ron and Harry and Ginny would know. Professor McGonagall would know. They would see her for what she truly was, and she would be left utterly alone.

The thing that made her feel sickest was the undercurrent of satisfaction that ran in her mind. He was dead. The bastard who killed her parents was dead. Murder or not, she had avenged them and she could not be _entirely_ ashamed of it.

"The time to be silent has passed, if you are still capable of speaking, girl," he said coldly. "If you do not answer me, I will be forced to make this decision for you and I will bodily remove you from the room."

She tried to open her mouth, but nothing came out. She had no desire to leave, and she had no desire to stay. She didn't care. Soon enough she'd be in Azkaban, left alone while her soul festered and rotted away. He gave her a few minutes to answer, but her mouth was dry and she could not speak.

Hermione could feel his breath on the top of her head as he bent over her, sliding his arm beneath her knees for the second time that day and wrapping his other around her back. She could feel the heavy cloth of his sleeve on her skin and she realized that he hadn't changed into clothes appropriate for the climate. He must have been in quite a hurry. She did not open her eyes. She wasn't sure that she remembered how to do so.

Her stomach lurched as they began to move. He didn't seem to be walking in a straight line, and it took her a moment of hard thought to realize that he must be avoiding the blood and the mutilated body of the Death Eater. Wilkes, apparently. She hadn't even known his name, while he was killing her parents. She wished she still didn't.

Hermione didn't know the house well enough to have any sense of where they were going. She wasn't even entirely sure which direction the kitchen was. She marked the distance by the number of his footsteps, and then he began to slowly, carefully ascend a flight of stairs. Her feet bumped against the wall, but he made no move to adjust them. Neither did she. Feet on a wall were the least of her worries.

The journey up the stairs seemed agonizingly slow to her, a quest in and of itself. When they finally reached the upper floor, she felt as though they'd been climbing upwards for hours—yet they had gone nowhere, only to another part of the same place.

She felt his weight shift and heard the creak of a door, apparently pushed open by his foot. After a moment, he walked through the doorway and laid her down gently down on a mattress. The bed squeaked underneath her weight, and she felt a hysterical urge to giggle. Never before in her life had it occurred to her that she might ever be in a situation that involved both Professor Snape and a squeaky bed at the same time. For a moment, she thought she _was_ laughing, but then she realized that her face was wet with tears. She wondered how long she'd been crying without noticing it, and how she could be so very disconnected from her own body.

His hands were at her back again, pulling her forward and placing pillows underneath her, propping her up. "I am going to give you some potions," he said quietly, his voice tight. "A healing potion, to counteract a few of your more serious injuries, and a Calming Draught. You will drink it—I will brook no refusal, and I will not hesitate to force you, if I must. Open your mouth."

She thought about refusing, but her mouth opened of its own accord, and a few drops of potion hit her tongue. It tasted green, and reminded her of the smell of grass. _How odd_, she thought vaguely, _that grass exists_. It was not exactly a good taste, but neither was it exactly a bad taste. The Calming Draught was sweeter, like tea with far too much sugar in it.

Something scraped along the floor and she had to search through her mind for an uncharacteristically long time before she finally pulled the word 'chair' from somewhere. She finally allowed her eyes to open, just a crack. He had sat down on a chair and crossed his arms, sitting as stiffly as she had ever seen him do and looking directly at her. His face was so completely blank that she wondered how she could ever have seen emotion on it in the past.

So he was going to guard her, then. She opened her eyes a little more, staring dully at him, unblinking. She could feel the potion beginning to insinuate itself into her blood, calming the racing of her heart and untangling a few of the knots in her stomach. Perversely, she attempted to hold on to some of her terror, her guilt—it seemed wrong to allow a potion to strip them away so easily.

But oh, it was so warm in the bed, and so comfortable, and it smelled so much like home. Her mind slowly let go of any thoughts of potions as her limbs grew heavier and heavier. She was so very tired. How long had it been since she'd slept? Two days? Three? She couldn't keep track anymore of when one day ended and the next began. Surely he wouldn't grudge her a little sleep before he gave her over to the Aurors.

It took all of her strength to move from her side and onto her back. Morning light was shining onto the ceiling. The energy it took to get settled after moving left her utterly and completely drained. It didn't matter—she was so comfortable, and so tired, and it was so quiet, with nothing but the warm, summery air and the faint noise of birds outside.

Her eyelids were fluttering. She didn't know why she was struggling to keep them open any longer. She wanted to sleep so badly. He hadn't covered her up, but she felt warm and weighted down, as though she were buried under a heavy pile of quilts.

Just in the few seconds before she slipped away from consciousness, she heard the faint rustle of robes as he stood up, leaning over her. Her shirt had been pushed up as she adjusted herself on the mattress, and her stomach was exposed. Fingertips touched the bare skin of her abdomen, touching one of several old scars left from her encounter with Draco, and for the second time that night—or was it day?—she felt that bizarre, intense jolt of understanding and connection. It was so intimate that it was almost painful.

Then the hand was gone, carefully touching only the hem of her shirt as he drew it down to cover her up again.

She wondered how he had known to come and find her.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Special thanks must go to the following people: JunoMagic, for much idea-bouncing and writing of spells. RenitaLeandra, for idea-bouncing and awesome cheerleading. Harmony, for encouragement and lots of reviews. Believe me, without these three, you would still be waiting for this chapter. 

On spells:

_Sectumaximum Perpetuum_: A variation on _Sectumsempra_, basically meaning to cut perpetually. It is meant to be much more powerful and much more deadly.

_Glacies Esto: _"Thou shalt be ice"

Damien Wilkes is finally dead. Happy day! I promise that in the next chapter or two, there will be a full explanation of whatever it was that he and Severus were discussing during their duel.


	34. Metaphysics

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 34: Metaphysics**

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Warm, late-morning sun filtered through a window and fell across Hermione's face, waking her slowly. She raised her arms up over her head, moving muscles that were cramped from having lain in the same position for so long and enjoying the catlike sensation of stretching. Her fingertips brushed the familiar headboard of her bed. She rolled over onto her side, grasping her old, comfortable blanket and pulling it up over her shoulder. 

It felt so good to be home, back in her own bed after so very long away. She opened her eyes and gazed blearily across the room at the furniture, a tidy little matched bedroom set that she'd grown up with. Her eyes were blurry from sleep and she blinked a few times, smiling to herself. Home was a pleasant place to be. She listened for the familiar, comforting noise of her parents, who would surely be downstairs in the kitchen already, fixing their breakfast.

And then something began to tug at her memory and her smile faded. Her parents. In the kitchen.

_Oh, God_.

She woke up fully in a matter of seconds after that, and as she looked around the room again, she noticed all the wrong things that should have told her immediately that she wasn't really home. The floor was wrong. The ceiling was too high. The bookshelf was in the wrong place. She threw the blanket off and sat up, ignoring the momentary dizziness she felt. It was surely an aftereffect of whatever potions Professor Snape had given her the night before. It would pass.

There were bloody footprints on the floor, outlining the tread of boots from the door to the bed. She looked down at herself to check on her injuries and nearly screamed. Her clothes and arms had been sprayed with blood and she was covered with spots of it, like some hideous rash. Damien Wilkes' blood. Her parents' blood. She wondered if any of it was her own. There were still burns on her arms and scorch marks on her clothes, although the potion had gone a long way toward healing the burns—and her ribs too, she realized, as she noticed that she was breathing without pain.

Her head was beginning to swim, and she raised her hand to her mouth, looking around swiftly for a bathroom. There was nothing—only plain walls and a door. She stood up to make a dash for it. A loud buzzing began to fill her ears. Then she lost her footing and collapsed on the ground, unable to support herself.

Her body made a loud noise as it hit the floor, and a moment later she heard hurried footsteps approaching. The door flew open and she shied away, throwing her arms over her head before she realized who it was.

Professor Snape stood in the doorway, gazing down at her and looking very concerned indeed. A moment later he was crouching down and lifting her back into bed and his face had gone back to being impassive. She wondered if she'd imagined the concern, or if perhaps it had been displeasure at being forced to enter her room.

"You should not have attempted to get out of bed without my help," he said curtly.

"I didn't know you were here."

"Have the courage to be honest and tell the truth, girl. You didn't think."

She looked down at her hands, speckled with dark blood. "I didn't think," she whispered, remembering the horrified look on Wilkes' face before it was sliced into something unrecognizable as even being human by her curse.

"I assume you need to use… the facilities," he said uncomfortably. She winced. If he was half as embarrassed as she was by that question, it was a wonder his face hadn't turned completely red.

"Er—that would be good." She focused on her embarrassment. It was by far the best option in terms of her current emotions.

"I will escort you to the door."

"No thank you. I'd rather go by myself."

"Yes," he said, with only the barest hint of sarcasm, "I did not mean to offend you by offering to assist when you were having such success on your own."

She bit her lip and turned her head away, not wanting him to see the tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes as she thought of how differently her mother would be acting in the same situation. But her mother was gone forever, due to her own unforgivable mistakes, and she was left to the tender mercies of Professor Snape, who had seen her commit a grisly murder and likely wanted nothing to do with her at all. He stood still, presumably still watching her.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly. She flinched at the use of her last name, but didn't correct him. She wasn't sure she could cope with Professor Snape calling her by her first name, either. "You cannot help yourself," he continued, "and there is nobody else here to help you but me." His dislike of that particular fact was nearly palpable.

"Don't trouble yourself," she said bitterly, refusing to look at him.

"In the past forty-eight hours, Miss Granger, I have traveled from Britain to Australia, dueled with a Death Eater, placed anti-Muggle wards around this house to keep the police away, dealt with the… aftermath of the duel, and maintained contact with both the Order of the Phoenix and representatives of the British Ministry. I assure you, you need not worry that I will find it too taxing to walk you to the toilet."

"Aftermath?" she asked in a tiny voice. Had her parents been reduced to that?

He sighed. "There are certain facts, in war. You do yourself no favors if you avoid them. Now, since it apparently galls your Gryffindor sensibilities beyond endurance to admit that you need help, I will admit it for you. Get out of the bed." His tone was cold, and it brooked no opposition. She wiped her eyes with her palms and then turned to him.

He held his arm out to her and she took it obediently, wrapping her hand around his forearm and leaning on him for support. She was shaky and sore, far more than she'd originally thought, and she was grateful for his help in spite of herself.

"The healing potion that I gave you can only do so much," he said, as though reading her mind. "And the body does not recover from the aftereffects of Cruciatus immediately."

"I know," she said tensely, thinking of Malfoy Manor, and the subsequent discussion at Shell Cottage. _Don't tell Bill I 'ave given you zis, 'Ermione_, Fleur had said, pushing a bottle into her hands and glancing around to be sure that nobody saw, _but zis will mask zee pain until it 'as passed, so you can go with 'Arry and Ron…_

And it had. She'd been able to keep going, to hide the lingering pain from Ron and Harry so that they could accomplish what they needed to accomplish. And then it had started to go away, and she'd started to forget how it felt.

She recognized all of the photographs on the walls. She'd spent hours before Obliviating her parents, culling through every photo, every painting, every box of memorabilia until she was sure she'd removed even the smallest traces of her presence in their lives. Hidden away in the attic of the Burrow were boxes of old Christmas presents, childhood arts and crafts projects, school reports, birthday cards—she looked at the floor, anxious to avoid all of the memories that lined the walls, but even on the floor there was a rug that she'd helped her mother pick out a few summers ago.

It was not a long walk, but she had to take it slowly, and she found herself leaning on Professor Snape far more than she would have liked. He, for his part, stayed stiff and straight, looking directly ahead of them. If he hadn't walked with such agonizing slowness, a stranger might have thought that he was totally unaware of the thin girl hanging on to his arm.

"I will wait here," he said with distaste as they reached the door, "to assist you back to your bed."

"Oh," she said, feeling a flush rise into her face again. "No thank you, please. I can call you when I'm finished. I wanted to wash up a bit and have a shower."

"I would not advise remaining on your feet for that long," he said. It was a thinly-disguised order and she didn't have the energy or the desire to resist.

"All right." She let go of his arm, leaning on the wall for support and hobbling into the bathroom.

She moved carefully, not wanting to fall and force him to break in and assist her. There were two toothbrushes at the sink, and when she opened the cupboard she saw a neatly arranged assortment of toothpaste tubes in various flavors and varieties. Several brands of dental floss were arranged in a tidy row on the bottom shelf. Reaching forward, she picked up a tube and held it in her hand, staring down at it.

That was when she started to cry.

She leaned heavily on the sink for support, clutching the tube in one hand and crying over it as though it were her mother's body. She wept bitterly, until her throat ached and she'd run out of breath. Then she glanced up into the mirror.

There were spots of blood on her face. Looking down, she saw again the blood on her hands and arms. She turned the water on and began to scrub mercilessly, scratching at the blood with her fingernails to peel it from her skin more quickly. She was dimly aware that time was passing, but she kept washing, and when she was sure that her hands, arms, and face were clean, she began to peel off her shirt. It took a few moments, for there were places that were quite bloody, and had stuck to her as they dried.

Soon, though, she had it off and she tossed it aside immediately and looked in the mirror, checking for blood on her skin.

There was a greenish, fading bruise that sharply delineated the line of the counter where her body had struck it. The potion seemed to have sped up the healing process considerably in that regard, for it looked as though it would be gone in only a day or two, in spite of its massive size. The old, white scars that Draco had left on her crawled down her abdomen crookedly, disappearing beneath her jeans. She didn't look too carefully at those.

Instead, Hermione twisted around, glancing over her shoulder to try and get a glimpse of her back and check that for blood and injuries as well.

Her back. She paused. He'd touched her back.

What had happened? It had been intense and frightening, and the contact had flooded her with strange emotions. She'd thought back involuntarily to her first trip to Ollivander's and her old, broken wand of vinewood, and how exhilarated and scared she'd felt at the tingle of magic and potential when she touched its handle.

She reached back and brushed her fingers against the spot he'd touched, half-expecting to see a bruise or some sort of mark there.

But there was nothing there except for smooth, white skin and a dusting of colorless, downy hairs. She'd only imagined that burning, tingling sensation then. She'd been so alone and distraught, and he'd gathered her up and touched her and disturbed those tiny, downy hairs—and she, befuddled and in shock, had mistaken goosebumps for electricity.

"Miss Granger," said his voice at the door, startling her. Instinctively, she threw her arms up to cover her chest, although she knew the door was locked. "Do you plan to emerge today, or shall I return tomorrow?"

"Sorry," she managed, blushing although he could not see it. "Just brushing my teeth and then I'll be finished."

He did not answer. She pulled her shirt back on and turned to the cupboard again, looking once more at the neat rows of toothpaste. It seemed like a desecration to pick one of them up and use it, but she hadn't brought any of her own, and she couldn't imagine her parents condoning a day without tooth brushing, even if they _had_ just been brutally murdered.

"That's the Gryffindor spirit," she whispered to the mirror with a crooked, miserable smile. "Keep making jokes about it until you don't care." Her voice cracked as she said it, and tears rose into her eyes again, though she valiantly forced them away.

The mirror didn't respond, and she picked up a toothbrush—probably her father's, she decided. He'd always picked green—and a tube of toothpaste, and began to brush.

She brushed her teeth for a long time, doing it loudly so Professor Snape wouldn't knock on the door again. It felt good, cleaning the slime and grit of several days off and replacing it with something clean. Her mouth felt pleasantly cool as she spit into the sink and rinsed the toothpaste away.

Very carefully, she rinsed the toothbrush until not a hint of toothpaste remained on it, and then she replaced it to the exact spot she'd taken it from. She looked in the mirror again.

The girl who looked at her did not look much like Hermione Granger. Her hair was wild and unruly, matted with knots. There were impossibly dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken and pale. She'd obviously been crying quite recently. Everything was bloodshot—not just her eyes, but the tip of her nose, and the chapped skin around her mouth, and the apples of her cheeks. She was not terribly pretty when she cried, it seemed.

"As much as you seem to enjoy it, Miss Granger, you cannot stay in there indefinitely," came Professor Snape's voice through the door again. He sounded impatient. He was right, however, so she took one last moment to tug her hair, unbrushed, into an untidy bun, and then reluctantly she made her way to the door. Leaning against the doorjamb for support, she unlocked it and pushed it open.

He barely glanced at her, only held out his arm again with an impatient, jerky gesture and began leading her slowly back to the bed that had once belonged to a girl called Hermione Granger.

0 0 0

In spite of her obvious attempts to improve her appearance, Severus thought she still looked appallingly bad. The only significant improvement was that she was no longer spattered with blood. He did his best to hide his discomfort, but it was nearly impossible. She looked so lost, so young and old at the same time, and he did not know what to say or how to act. Comforting Gryffindors was not a skill that came easily to him; he was long out of practice. Instead, he remained largely silent, confining himself to simple commands and inquiries, lest he injure her further in an ill-judged attempt to give consolation.

"Lie down, Miss Granger," he said as they reached her bed. He simply could not bring himself to continue to use her first name. It was far too alien to him, and in some recess of his mind, he still deemed it important to avoid any intimacy with her as much as he could. She had not protested the use of her last name again, and he hoped that it meant she had reconciled herself to the fact that the death of her parents did not make her any less their daughter.

She crawled into the bed and drew the blanket up around her chin, staring ahead of her with an empty expression. He kept still. As much as he wished to delay, he had done it for far too long already. Soon enough, the true impact of everything that had happened would begin to hit her, and it would be impossible to discuss things with her rationally. He had to speak now or wait indefinitely. He sat down in the chair that he'd drawn up to the bed when he first placed her there and looked at her uneasily.

"You have been asleep," he said, "for a little over twenty-four hours."

She turned to look at him. He couldn't meet her eyes, so he looked past her, studying the windowsill intently.

"I took steps to ensure that the Order would be alerted to our presence in Australia as I left Britain. Members of the Order have since arrived and are dealing with the Australian Ministry. Wilkes is a known Death Eater and wanted in this country as well as our own. Kingsley Shacklebolt has entered into negotiations with the Australian Aurory, and the specific circumstances of his… demise… will be designated as classified information."

He paused. She watched him, appearing to process the information, although he couldn't be sure that she heard him at all, until she spoke: "I'm… not going to Azkaban, then?"

He blinked. Had the girl really thought she'd be imprisoned?

"No," he said, frowning in thought. She looked abashed and lowered her eyes again. "Even if Wilkes were not who he is and you were not a member of the Order, the law makes allowances in cases of self-defense."

"It wasn't."

His frown deepened. "Wasn't what, Miss Granger?"

"Self defense," she said, knitting her brows together and staring down at her folded hands. "It wasn't. You were protecting me. He was unarmed and I—I attacked him."

"Nevertheless," he said, trying to sound comforting but afraid that he sounded merely stern and admonishing, "we are at war and, given the situation, it has been deemed self-defense by those whose job it is to make such decisions."

She simply kept looking at her hands, fidgeting idly with her fingernails and digging nonexistent dirt out from under them.

After nearly a minute of this, he concluded that she had nothing more to say on the matter, and he pressed on: "The house is being watched and protected by local Aurors. There are anti-Muggle wards up. You are quite safe, and the…" the what? The corpses? Bodies? He wondered what the proper etiquette was for discussing the remains of one's murdered parents. "Your parents and Damien Wilkes have been attended to."

The last remnants of color drained from her skin, but still she did not move. He stared at her, wondering what would happen if he touched her again. He was intensely aware of her despair and shock. The more aware of it he grew, the more helpless he felt, and the stiffer and more formal he found himself becoming.

"Attended to?" she whispered, her lips barely moving.

"Wilkes' remains have been removed to the Ministry for examination. Your parents have been… cleaned, and placed under a stasis charm until you are ready to make arrangements."

He kept watching her. He'd done it himself, spending hours on it. It had been tiring, gruesome work, laying each body out carefully and sponging the blood and bodily fluids off with a damp cloth, the Muggle way. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd done it, except perhaps as a way to excise a tiny bit of the regret and guilt he felt over not arriving sooner, not watching her closely enough to have prevented yet another tragedy at the hands of someone he'd once admired.

"Where are they?"

Severus considered not telling her. What if she asked to see them? He was not prepared to comfort the girl if she became hysterical over their bodies.

"I have… they are in the master bedroom of this house."

He thought he saw her shudder, but she did not ask him to take her to them. _Thank Merlin for small mercies_, he thought reverently, shaking his head. What if she began to cry and, in an attempt to make her feel better, he inadvertently touched her again? How much of her emotion would he have to bear, if he did? How much closer would it bring them?

She seemed deeply interested in her arms, and was now scratching at one of them roughly, insistently. He frowned as he watched her. If she didn't stop, she was going to break through the skin.

"What are you doing?" he said, concern making his voice more harsh than he intended. She started guiltily, glancing up at him as though she'd been caught doing something wrong.

"There's… blood on it," she whispered, her eyes flickering between her arm and his face. He looked at it closely and saw nothing except for clean skin.

"Miss Granger," he said softly, "there is no blood on your arm."

For a moment she seemed about to disagree, but she kept her mouth shut, looking at her arm again and then lying down, nestling into her pillow, her face expressionless.

Severus looked at her and wondered when her hair had taken on that sheen of copper in its highlights. In the right light, it would be almost red. The influence of too many Weasleys, he supposed. Apparently even the color of their hair was catching.

He felt minutes pass, and in his mind he began rehearsing how he would tell her, exactly how he would bring it up. _Miss Granger, you have leashed your soul to mine for all eternity_ seemed too harsh. He dismissed it almost immediately.

How had he spent so long putting off this moment and never considered in advance how he would say it, when the time finally came? He stared at her, racking his brain for the proper words with which to introduce the subject.

She licked her lips, which were dry and chapped, and then she spoke in a small, uncertain voice. "Professor?" she said hesitantly, digging her teeth into her lower lip.

"Miss Granger?"

"How did you know where to find me?"

0 0 0

"Ah," said Professor Snape, after which he fell silent again. She waited, not sure what to say. He'd been so cold and stern with her, but if anybody had come after her, she would have expected Ron and Harry and Ginny—and most definitely _not_ Professor Snape.

Just as she was about to ask him again, he spoke.

"That, Miss Granger, is a very long story." He frowned, looking down and inspecting a button on his cuff. His robes were still too warm for the weather, and they were still immaculate, even after everything that happened. At least, they _appeared_ immaculate. There were benefits to wearing black at all times.

He spoke very slowly, enunciating each word with tight control. "Although it may be beyond your ability to do so, I hope you will attempt to refrain from asking me questions, if you can. I trust that I will be able to explain the circumstances thoroughly without prompting, and if you find the explanation lacking, there will be time for questions when it is finished. Not before."

She didn't even bother to answer him. She had no energy for more questions, now that she'd asked the only one that had occurred to her. Never looking at her, he waited until he seemed satisfied that she wasn't going to pester him, and then he continued, still speaking very slowly and carefully.

"I believe I must begin," he said, "with a few points that were most likely not covered in any of your History of Magic classes. As… _thorough_ a lecturer as Professor Binns may be, he still does not have the time nor the inclination to include everything." He paused, and something in his face convinced Hermione that he thought no more of Professor Binns' lecture style than Harry and Ron did.

"Throughout the recorded history of magic, there have been many events which were… unconventional." He drew out the last word, looking thoughtful, as though unsure of what to say next. "Given the nature of magic, this is to be expected. However, over time, our world has developed a series of guidelines and expectations, which have allowed us to formulate rules and theorems that predict how it will behave in _most_ situations."

He pursed his lips. Although he'd started out slowly, he seemed to be warming to his subject, and he was adopting his classroom voice and demeanor. She remembered the drive to London and snuggled down into her mattress a little more comfortably. After everything that had happened, it was strangely pleasant to have Professor Snape there, looking as he always did and lecturing her about magic—even if he _was_ doing it in her bedroom.

"In some areas, however, our knowledge is still incomplete. The field of Metaphysics has been left largely to the Department of Mysteries and men like Xenophilius Lovegood."

"Specifically, I refer to Ontology. The term derives from the Greek _ontos_, which is being, and _logia_, which is to write or study about a subject. Thus, _ontos_ and _logia_, Ontology, is the study of _being_, its fundamental nature and behavior. In this case, we must deal specifically with a question of the Ontology of the soul."

He paused and looked her in the eye for the first time, lifting one eyebrow. "Are you following me thus far?"

"Ontology," she repeated dutifully, wondering how on earth any of this could be relevant.

"Yes," he said slowly. "The nature and behavior of the human soul, Miss Granger, is a mysterious thing. Unlike many of your fellow students, you will understand this to some degree, being acquainted with the matter of Horcruxes." He winced slightly as he said it, and she shivered.

"But," he continued, recovering himself quickly, "not all magic involving the soul is necessarily as evil as that which the Dark Lord attempted. Although the nature of the protection given to Harry Potter for the first seventeen years of his life was also a question of Blood Magic, it is undoubtedly true that it required a certain purity of soul as well, or it would not have succeeded."

She opened her mouth to ask what this had to do with Professor Snape's arrival in Australia, but she remembered his admonishment at the beginning of the lecture just in time, and closed her mouth again.

"It is believed by most," he said, "that the soul is the thing which determines magical ability. That is to say that some souls are imbued with magic and others are not. Thus, when witches or wizards experience a great emotional trauma, their magic is sometimes affected."

She thought of the things that they'd read in _The Daily Prophet_ accusing Muggle-borns of stealing magic, and wondered how that could be if this was the most commonly accepted theory. Again, she wanted to ask and again she put it aside, lest he become angry with her. It was a wonder that he was in the room with her at all, when she thought about it, and she didn't want to push him away before he'd finished answering her.

"The connection between the _soul_ of a wizard and the _magic_ of a wizard is the thing which allowed the Dark Lord to create Horcruxes. When—" he stopped and looked at her very strangely, an expression on his face that she'd never seen before. It reminded her a little bit of Ron.

"We can pass over the rest of the philosophy, for the time being," he said curtly. She blinked in surprise, but before she could comment (which she surely would have), he was talking again.

"There is a story, Miss Granger, a whisper that runs throughout magical history, of a rare magical event. Similar to the creation of a Horcrux, it is possible only at a moment of death, and requires very specific circumstances if it is to be accomplished. I mention Horcruxes not because of an ethical similarity, you understand, but because it is the branch of overtly soul-involved magic with which you will be most intimately acquainted. It is merely a point of reference."

He laid great emphasis on the last sentence, enough that she found herself nodding to reassure him that she understood.

"I wonder," he said, and then he became silent. She waited. And she waited. This pause was the longest yet, but she did not interrupt him. Something in his face warned her against it.

"I wonder," he repeated finally, "if you have ever heard the phrase _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_, Miss Granger?"

0 0 0

He allowed himself to take a real breath for the first time since she'd asked The Question. It was out. Her brow was furrowed, and she was chewing on her lower lip with a look of intense thought. It was all he could do to hold himself still in his chair and not flee the room. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to be familiar with the enchantment already, or if he would prefer her to be totally ignorant. All he knew was that he wanted the conversation to be over already.

"It… sounds familiar," she said at last. "Is it a spell?"

"It would be better termed an enchantment, although I am not entirely convinced that the proper word exists in our lexicon."

He swallowed, feeling his mouth suddenly go dry. "The enchantment occurs at the moment when a witch or wizard dies. Before the soul has entirely fled the body, it is still possible to recall it, if powerful enough magic is used. However, it takes a soul to recover a soul, Miss Granger. To be successful, _Coniugium Mentium Verarum _requires a witch or wizard to literally reach their soul out from themselves and anchor it to that of the dying person."

She had become very still, and her mouth was hanging slightly open as she listened. He thought she looked like a delicate piece of broken porcelain, all white and sharp around the edges.

He forced himself to continue, although everything within him insisted that he get up and run away before it was too late. "To accomplish even this much, there must be some intense emotional connection between the two, although the nature of that connection varies greatly from one time to the next. Furthermore, even if one soul does succeed in reaching out to another, there must also exist a high level of compatibility between the two, or the connection will collapse immediately."

A look of horrified comprehension began to cross her face and she drew back from him slightly. "Sir," she said in a choked voice, "are you saying that—"

"I am saying," he said quickly, unable to bear the distress in her voice, "that I owe you a life debt for more than merely recovering my body from the Shrieking Shack. I have done all that I can to confirm the existence of the enchantment before burdening you with the knowledge, and I believe there is no other explanation."

"I don't understand," she whispered, but the fear and disbelief in her eyes convinced him that it was a half-truth at best.

He folded his hands together, palms up, and looked down at them meditatively. "I regret, Miss Granger, that once the connection has been forged, it is impossible to undo it. To pull a soul back from the brink of death requires a great deal of power and a binding so strong that, once the act is done, it cannot be reversed."

Her hand tightened into a fist around the edge of her blanket, gripping it so hard that it began to shake from the tension of the muscles, but she stayed quiet, apparently at a loss for words.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he stood up and began to pace back and forth, looking anywhere but at her. The sun was bright and cheerful outside, completely inappropriate for his mood, and he vaguely wished that he knew the enchantment that altered the view out the windows of the Ministry. It would be much more fitting for the day to be dark and rainy.

"I hope you are alive to the implications that this has for you and for myself, Miss Granger," he said tensely. "It is inescapable, as I have already said, although it might possibly be undone by death. Also, if one was willing to do so, theoretically one might be able to divide the two souls by creating a Horcrux. But there is no way to do such a thing with any accuracy, and there is a high likelihood that you would end up doing great evil without ever achieving the desired result."

"…Implications?" she murmured, her eyes wide.

He stopped pacing, looking at her from the far corner of the room. "Sharing of some magical abilities," he said, his voice clipped and nervous. "Combining some personality traits. Deep empathy. And… sometimes… flashes of insight into events that the other party might be experiencing at the time."

She closed her eyes and seemed to be mouthing something silently to herself. Then slowly she opened them again, looking at him with the same piercing, questioning gaze that had faced him so often across the Potions classroom.

"That sounds like Harry and Voldemort," she said bluntly. There was a quiver of fear in her voice that did not escape him, and he felt an ache in his heart for her. As terrifying as it was for him to be bound to her, what must it be like for her to be stuck to one such as him?

"I admit there are some… similarities."

"Some?"

"Many. But you must understand, the situations are not the same."

"How are they different?" She seemed to have decided that the lecture was over, because the questions were coming quickly now.

"Because," he said wryly, "your soul is still intact."

She pressed her lips together and looked at him. The sadness in her eyes was endless, and he could not bear to see them for more than a few seconds. "No it isn't," she said. In that moment she seemed so frail and pathetic that he forgot his own fear and approached her again, although he kept a wary eye on her lest she shy away.

"You are not a murderer, Hermione," he said quietly, willing himself to say her first name without wincing at the impropriety of it.

She turned away, curling her body in on itself and hiding her face in a pillow.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, a world of weariness in her muffled voice.

He sighed very softly, stretching his hand out to rest on her shoulder. He drew it away before it reached her, though—he could not imagine that she would be grateful for his touch.

"I saw you," he said quietly. "So I came."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** At long last, the truth comes out! 

Hermione is still very much in shock, so her emotions are still pretty subdued at this point. Poor girl.

Immense thanks and love to all of you who have left reviews. Even though I don't have the time to reply to all of them individually, they all mean a great deal to me and provide wonderful inspiration.

Also thanks to JunoMagic, RenitaLeandra, and Harmony, for cheerleading and very helpful idea-bouncing. You are all awesome.


	35. The History Lesson

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 35: The History Lesson**

* * *

A young wizard with unruly black hair stood outside of a nondescript sort of house, banging relentlessly on the door. Two red-haired persons stood behind him, a man and a woman, with so many features in common that their close familial relationship was immediately apparent. 

The door opened and a tall man dressed all in black gazed down at them, thick black hair falling around his face.

""Can I help you?" he said dryly, not looking all surprised by the appearance of the three people that he addressed.

"Yeah," said the wizard. "You can let us in to see Hermione."

The black-clad man's lip curled into a sneer. "Ready to come in and see her, now that someone else has finished the difficult bits and rescued her for you, Potter? I think not."

"Didn't know she needed rescuing, did we?" said the red-haired young man defensively. Potter made a restless movement, apparently intending to silence his companion. The man in black narrowed his eyes.

"Miss Granger is… indisposed," he said crisply. "And you three are here on sufferance only and under orders to stay with Professor McGonagall," he looked around, raising his eyebrows, "who, oddly enough, I do not see here."

"Please, Professor Snape," said the girl plaintively. "We just want to be sure she's all right."

"Miss Weasley, in spite of the mistaken belief imparted to you by your siblings, it is not the way of the world to reward rule-breakers by giving them the very thing they broke the rules to attain. You will leave the premises immediately. She is under guard by Aurors and when the Headmistress—who I remind you is also head of the Order—decides that it is appropriate to allow you to see her, you will do so. Not before."

The door closed in their faces.

0 0 0

The wall was blue. Hermione looked at it, because looking at the wall was better than any of her other options at the moment. She could not say anything to Professor Snape, because she couldn't for the life of her think of anything to say. She could not scream and cry and throw things, no matter how badly she wanted to, because she was not allowed to get out of bed. Her muscles ached from the exertion of walking to the bathroom and back.

She could not see her mother and father. They were dead.

Neither could she bring herself to go and look at their bodies—not yet. She'd already seen them, after all, and cleaned up or not, she didn't relish the idea of being near their corpses just yet. She didn't like dead bodies.

She could feel him, sitting on the chair behind her. It made her uncomfortable, knowing that he was staring at her, that she had her back to him. She was vulnerable, and even if she turned around to face him, she would be vulnerable. She would be vulnerable forever now, if he hadn't lied to her.

"Potter and the Weasleys were here," he said, once he had got comfortable in his seat again.

"I don't want to see them." Her voice was rough and husky. She frowned at the wall, closing her eyes. It was a half-truth. She desperately wanted to see Harry, but not if Ron was there. And if she were to be completely honest, she wasn't sure she was ready to see even Harry, as many questions as she wanted to ask him.

"I… know," he said. Of course he did. She cringed at the reminder.

"I still don't understand."

She heard a heavy sigh and another soft rustle as he readjusted his legs. "I cannot explain it to you more clearly, Miss Granger."

"But how could it have worked?"

"I cannot answer you!" he snapped. Oh, how he must hate her for doing this to him. She drew her knees up to her chest, wishing that she could curl herself up into nothingness. She'd ruined his life without even knowing it. Regret blossomed through her until she was enveloped in it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. How many times would she have to say it before it had an effect on her guilt? Would she spend the rest of her life apologizing in the futile hope that someday it might erase a little bit of her self-condemnation?

He didn't answer her. Why should he? She rubbed her thumb against the side of her index finger, wishing that she could go back to sleep.

"I have spoken with the Headmistress," he said at length. "We are to remain here until you are sufficiently recovered to travel, and then I am to escort you back to Britain. You may spend the remainder of your holiday wherever you choose."

"Why you?" she said. It was out before she could stop it, and only after she heard it did she realize how cruel it sounded.

He, apparently, realized it as well, for his voice went icy cold. "Because I am capable of protecting you, Miss Granger, and I am _here_, and the rest of the Order is involved in hunting down Damien Wilkes' co-conspirators and too busy to escort a headstrong girl back home to finish her Christmas holidays."

She tried to feel comfort in the fact that Professor Snape had, at least, not changed. He was still the same impatient, snappish man, who refused to bear her questions with equanimity. In spite of his familiarity, though, she was not comforted. Hermione felt terribly alone, and being snarled at by her Potions professor did nothing to change that.

"I have things to attend to," he said, standing up. She felt him lean over her and heard the soft clink of a bottle as he placed one on the windowsill. "Drink the potion. It will reduce the pain."

He left without another word, and she opened her eyes. The potion was in a blue bottle. She uncorked it and raised it to her lips, swallowing it without bothering to note the smell or the taste. It took effect almost immediately. Her weariness overwhelmed her and as the bone-deep ache in her body diminished, she drifted back to sleep.

0 0 0

"No! I have changed my mind!" said Severus, ceasing his pacing long enough to slam the flat of his palm against the wall. "I cannot do it, Minerva! Assign the task to somebody else. She is incapable of even looking at me, and you already know that I do not relish being in her company either."

Minerva McGonagall sat on the Grangers' couch, looking at him with very little sympathy. "Severus, who do you propose I give the job to? I refuse to put her in the hands of someone she does not know. Kingsley and I are both otherwise occupied, as you are well aware, which leaves me only two other options. I can send her with you, or I can send her with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley."

He scowled. "Why not Potter and Weasley, then? It's a simple matter of a Portkey and Apparition back to the school, Minerva, I do not see why I—"

"It is _not_ a simple matter of a Portkey, Severus. The Australian Ministry has shut down all Portkey Stations until the Death Eaters have been apprehended. I must say, they're quite embarrassed about the whole affair."

Severus looked at her warily, a sense of dread stealing over him. "Trans-oceanic Apparition is hardly a feasible option…"

"Of course not," she said, a little too briskly. She didn't meet his eye. "Kingsley and I were thinking you might use the Muggle transportation system."

Severus prided himself on being a man who was not easily rendered speechless. In this case, however, there was absolutely nothing he could say. He simply stared at her, uncomfortably aware that he was gaping, but unable to stop himself.

"I'm told it's quite safe," she said, looking slightly guilty.

"Do you mean to tell me, Minerva, that you intend to put me on an _aeroplane_?" he hissed.

She most definitely would not meet his eye.

"Not just you," she said. If it wasn't absolutely inconceivable for her to do so, he would have said that she was mumbling.

"I categorically refuse. There is no way you will convince me to get into one of those things, especially not with her."

"Be reasonable, Severus. With your background and upbringing, you're the most qualified—"

"The fact that my father was a Muggle does not mean I have _any_ experience with the Muggle means of air travel!"

"Well, perhaps Hermione has. I'm sure she could help you."

"I do not require _help_! I require a life in which I am not asked to strap myself into a giant flying piece of metal, propelled across the Pacific Ocean by means of explosives!"

"Don't be silly. You drive a car, don't you? It's the same principle."

He gritted his teeth. "The principle may be the same, but unlike _some_ people, I have never driven a car that flies. In fact, if it comes down to it, the Order member with the most experience in these matters _is_ Potter."

"Harry Potter and Ron Weasley will _not _be the ones to transport Hermione back to Britain, Severus. It is not an option."

"Why not?"

"Because I hold them personally responsible for the fact that she is in Australia to begin with. I am given to understand by Ginevra Weasley that were it not for an argument with her reprobate brother, this would not have happened. She originally intended to avoid her parents until she was assured that all rogue Death Eaters had been apprehended." She narrowed her eyes. "I'm surprised nobody mentioned it to you when you barged into Grimmauld Place and began railing at people."

In spite of himself, he felt rather embarrassed. "Miss Weasley might have said something," he muttered.

"I thought so. Now sit down and discuss this like a reasonable person."

"I am not a reasonable person!"

She pressed her lips together tightly, but something in her eyes made him think it was to mask a smile more than it was to indicate her displeasure. "I am, in actual point of fact, very aware of that, Severus. You are, however, a consummate actor. Sit down."

He sat, with bad grace, and glared at her.

"If you're not careful, your face is going to freeze that way."

"It hasn't yet," he growled.

"If you're not careful, I'm going to make an effort to be _sure _that it freezes that way. If you recall, I am a witch." There was a definite twitch about the corners of her mouth now, and he looked away sullenly.

"The hat gives it away, you know. You have no sense of subtlety."

"This, from the man who dresses like he could not decide whether he most preferred to imitate Rasputin or a vicar?"

"Black is subtle," he said grumpily, unpleasantly aware that he'd lost the argument.

"All things in moderation, Severus. Now, Kingsley and I have procured tickets. You are leaving tomorrow. The Weasleys will meet you at the Plane Station—"

"Airport," he snarled.

"Oh, are they more like boats, then?"

"Take her back to Britain yourself and find out."

"No," she said thoughtfully. "I think I will be staying here until the Australian Ministry reopens the Portkey station. You, however, do not have that option. As Deputy Headmaster, you must return to Hogwarts as soon as possible. Honestly, I had to leave Flitwick in charge, and you know what he's like. No discipline at all. I could never have done it if there weren't more than a handful of students still at the school."

His lip twisted. "I concede that my presence is required at Hogwarts. I do not see why Miss Granger cannot remain in Australia with you."

"Hermione Granger," she said tensely, "has been through an ordeal. I will not ask her to remain in Australia and spend Christmas hunting Death Eaters. She _ought _to be in Britain, recovering, and she ought to be escorted back there. Good heavens, Severus, do you want the poor girl to travel _alone_?"

"Minerva, have you any conception of how long it takes to fly from Australia to Britain in the Muggle way?"

"Well, they go quite fast, don't they?"

"Oh yes," he said through his teeth. "Halfway across the globe in fifteen hours."

"Very inefficient, these Muggles, aren't they?" she said conversationally.

"You are nowhere near as adept at pretending senility as Dumbledore was."

"I'm still learning. He coaches me on it, you know."

He glanced up at the ceiling, his eyes finding the spot where he knew Miss Granger lay, hopefully asleep. "Has it occurred to you that she will object to this scheme as strongly as I do? We recently had a… heart-to-heart," he sneered at the phrase, "and she appears to be of the opinion that no distance is too great to be put between us."

She cocked her head, looking interested. "Did she actually _say _that?"

"No," he admitted, "but—"

"Do not underestimate Gryffindor courage, Severus. I'm sure she'll rise to the occasion. Now, we'll need to find you some Muggle clothes. I can send an Auror out to get them, as I'd prefer you stay here."

He frowned. "I hope the Australian Ministry does a better job than ours does of training its Aurors how to blend in to Muggle society. I tell you now, I _will not _wear a dress."

She chuckled outright at that. "I will be sure to pass that along."

With a sigh, he brought a hand up to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it and trying not to think about his upcoming ordeal. "Very well, Minerva," he said venomously. "I see I have no choice. Once again, I bow to your authority." He made no effort to pretend that he was happy about it. He most assuredly wasn't.

She smirked, but had the decency to smother the expression almost at once. "Excellent. Now, I need to return to the Ministry. Try to be kind to her, Severus. The girl's just lost her parents, her best friend, and any last vestige of innocence that she had." She sighed quietly. "Surely you remember how that feels."

He grunted. He had no interest in remembering how it felt.

"Has she eaten anything?"

Ah. Food. Yet another thing to consider. He felt rather like an idiot for having forgotten it thus far. "No," he said slowly. "She has not. I shall endeavor to concoct something tempting, shall I?"

"You _are_ a Potions Master."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "I fail to see why everybody assumes that an understanding of Potions makes me a good cook."

She got slowly to her feet. She'd finally been able to stop using the cane, but it was obvious that she still had some degree of stiffness and pain. He made a mental note to brew her a potion for it when he got back to Hogwarts. A Headmistress in pain was far less efficient than one at her best.

"Nevertheless," she said, "I'm sure you'll be able to muddle through." She paused at the door and gave him an appraising glance. "And _do_ take a shower, won't you? Your hair looks awful. I'll never understand why you insist on keeping it that way."

"I find," he said haughtily, "that it deters lice."

Her eyes widened. "Gracious, Severus. I had no idea that the students in your House were so—"

"I wish you would leave."

0 0 0

This time, when she woke up, she remembered everything that had happened right away. She wasn't sure if it was better or worse that way.

Rolling over so that she could look around the room, she noted that she was alone. It was a little disappointing, to be honest—although she couldn't blame him. No doubt, he wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Professor Snape hated her. Ron hated her. She wondered if Harry and Neville would be next.

She couldn't bear the smell of the house. It smelled too much like her parents, and she was too painfully aware that eventually it would fade, and she would never smell it again. Sitting up, she found that some of her strength had returned, and she wondered if she could stand on her own.

If she tried and failed, Professor Snape would surely come in and berate her again, but it was better than calling him to help her. Mustering all of her courage, she swung her legs around to the edge of the bed and slowly, slowly pushed herself onto her feet.

She felt weak and unsteady, but her ears did not begin to buzz this time, and blackness didn't begin to fill her peripheral vision. Not sure how long she could maintain an upright position under her own strength, she stumbled across the room until she bumped into the far wall and leaned against it gratefully.

It felt strangely forbidden to be out of bed, and she listened carefully at the door for any hint of Professor Snape before she cautiously turned the handle and peered into the hallway. It was empty, and she slowly crept out of her room, one hand trailing along the wall in case she needed to catch hold of it for support.

As she went, she regained a little more of her equilibrium. The potion she'd taken had done more than put her to sleep, it seemed, and the throbbing ache in her nerves had diminished significantly. She was stiff and uncomfortable, but she could walk on her own.

Shuffling down the hall, she opened each door as she went. The first was the bathroom, she knew, and she skipped by that one. The next was only a linen closet. The third, at the very end of the hall, opened to the master bedroom. After a moment's hesitation, she went in.

The curtains were drawn, and the room was dark and slightly stuffy. Her parents' large bed stood at the opposite end of the room, and she could see their bodies laid out on it. As she approached, her heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder, and she had a sudden, wild fear that Professor Snape might hear it and come after her.

Due to the stasis charm, their bodies still looked fresh, as though they were only asleep. Someone had cleaned them and even gone so far as to bandage their few visible wounds and dress them in clean clothing. The nauseating smell of vomit and urine that she remembered from the kitchen was gone. She was standing up against the edge of the bed now, and all she could smell was the pleasant combination of her father's cologne and her mother's perfume. Whoever had cleaned and dressed their bodies had placed them close to one another, so close that their hands overlapped between them.

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched her father's arm. She expected it to be stiff and cold, but it wasn't. The muscle gave slightly under her touch, just as it would on a live person, and although it wasn't up to body heat, it wasn't cold, either. His eyes were closed. If she tried very hard, she could convince herself that he was only asleep.

Careful not to jostle him, she climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head down on his chest. There was nothing there—no heartbeat, no intake of breath, but she didn't care. She closed her eyes and did her best to pretend.

"I'm sorry, daddy," she whispered, her voice catching. "It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." She began to cry, not quietly as she usually did, but with great, despairing sobs that tore her breath from her chest. He didn't move, didn't respond. His body simply lay there, moving up and down slightly as her cries shook the mattress.

She finally understood why Harry would choose the Resurrection Stone out of the three Deathly Hallows. She knew with a terrible certainty that if she'd had the Stone with her in that moment, she would use it without a second thought. The knowledge wrenched a high, keening wail from her. Even now, when she should have learned her lesson, she was so selfish that she would sentence them to a despairing half-life rather than allow them some peace.

She never noticed Professor Snape standing in the doorway.

0 0 0

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, clinging to her father's body as though she were a little girl instead of a grown witch. For the first time in years, Severus Snape was moved close to tears. His eyes burned with the unfamiliar sensation and he wished that he could turn away, but he was transfixed.

She had nearly stopped crying before he stole away again.

0 0 0

Hermione cried until she couldn't cry anymore. It was strangely cathartic, in a way, to know that she'd literally run out of tears. There would be more in the future, she was sure, but for now she'd used up her grief, poured it out on her father's chest. For now, she was empty.

Slowly, she let go of him. He still looked exactly the same. She leaned up and kissed his cheek—it was cool and smooth beneath her lips. She did the same with her mother, and then left the room, walking slowly. She was not happy, but she was oddly comforted, for the time being.

She was also hungry. Her stomach growled loudly and she wondered if there was any food in the house, or if she could venture downstairs to the kitchen without incurring Professor Snape's wrath for being out of bed. She didn't like the idea of being in that room again, but she was beginning to be hungry enough that she'd attempt it.

The question was answered for her when she saw the Professor mounting the stairs, carrying a tray. She froze when she saw him, and as he lifted his head, he did the same.

His eyes widened slightly, but he kept the rest of his face as smooth and controlled as ever. "Miss Granger," he said evenly, inclining his head. She breathed a little faster, waiting for the tirade that was to follow. "I thought you might be hungry."

"Oh," she said, thrown rather off-kilter. "I am, actually."

"I imagine you do not wish to return downstairs at this time." Holding the tray with one hand, he opened the door to what she vaguely had begun thinking of as 'her' bedroom. Hesitantly, she entered, ducking underneath his arm to do so. He followed her in and set the tray down on the chair, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

"I have already eaten," he said slowly, "but there are things we need to… discuss. Do you feel able to attempt this while you eat?"

She did not, but she wasn't about to let him know it. She sat on the bed and picked up the tray (Merlin, it was heavier than it looked), setting it in front of her and nibbling on a piece of toast.

"Professor McGonagall, on consultation with Kingsley Shacklebolt, has now decided that we are to return to Britain tomorrow." He said it with a look of such extreme displeasure that she ducked her head as guiltily as if the decision had been her own. "The Australian Portkey Stations have been temporarily closed down, and we will thus be required to travel by Muggle means. Have you ever," he said, fixing her with an intense stare, "been on an aeroplane, Miss Granger?"

She was hit by a most unlikely thought—could he be _nervous_? There was nothing in his face to give it away, but the timbre of his voice had altered ever so slightly. She swallowed her bite of toast and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Ah," he said. "I assume, then, that you will be able to do so again without an undue amount of anxiety?"

She nodded again. He drew a deep breath, looking relieved. "Very good. Where you go after we return to Britain is up to you. Hogwarts is, of course, an option. The Weasleys wish me to convey to you that you are also very welcome at the Burrow." He seemed to find even the name unpleasantly tainted by Weasley-ness. "And Mr. Potter has informed me that you ought to consider Grimmauld Place as your own home."

There were too many choices. She peered into her cup, wondering if the skills of a Potions Master extended as far as making good tea. "I don't know," she said, lifting the cup to her lips. It was delicious. When was the last time she'd had a real cup of tea? It had been a lifetime since she came to Australia. A lifetime without tea.

She took another sip.

"Very well," he said. "You will have time on the aeroplane to consider the matter."

"Yes, sir." She poked around the plate. Besides the toast, there were a few slices of cheese and some wilting vegetables. She ate something, but didn't register what it was, beyond the fact that it was edible.

He watched her eat with an intensity that made her wonder if he was mentally cataloguing every bite she took and filing it away somewhere with some purpose or other in mind. It seemed like the sort of thing he might do.

"Professor?" she said, more out of a desire to break the growing silence than anything else.

"You have a question?"

"Yes."

He leaned back in his chair with a longsuffering sigh. "You never fail to be predictable, Miss Granger. The world could be ending, and you would ask questions."

It did no good to take it personally, she reminded herself. At least he was talking to her. At least she wasn't alone. That had to be worth something, even if her only companion _was_ the least personable man she knew.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, retreating from him instinctively. He had enough ammunition to use against her already without her showing him any more weakness.

He looked at her appraisingly. "Miss Granger, I warn you… I do not share details of my personal life with students, as your friend Potter has already discovered." She couldn't help but feel disappointed at that. She was curious, she realized. It was strange, feeling curious; strange to remember that there were still things in the world to be discovered and wondered about.

Professor Snape's gaze had not left her face. She felt her cheeks growing hot under his withering scrutiny. Nobody had ever looked at her like that, as though she were utterly transparent.

"However," he said, his voice so soft that it was almost inaudible, "I must confess that you are not in exactly the same position as my other students." The reminder did nothing to make her more comfortable, and she hid her face in her teacup. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps it is better that you know some of these things, Miss Granger, as it is possible that they may have some transferred impact on you."

"What sort of impact, sir?"

0 0 0

It was only with effort that he could stifle his despairing groan as soon as the fatal words had left his mouth. He wondered how many things he would need to explain to her, now that he'd essentially given her free range to ask. He hardly expected it to be the torrent of questions that he could have got from the girl at one point, but the few that she did ask were sure to be just as unwelcome and intrusive as her questions always were.

"Miss Granger, if our souls are linked together—" and how he hated to say such trite-sounding things "—then it is reasonable to expect that events which affect the soul of one will affect the soul of the other, even if they do so subtly."

"Oh," she said. She was not looking at him. In fact, she was looking everywhere but at him. Apparently he was doomed never to be looked at by a Gryffindor woman again. Severus nearly smirked. He was sure that he could live with that, if forced. Her nose wrinkled slightly, presaging another question. He braced himself.

"What if the things happened before the… the… you know?"

"The enchantment, Miss Granger." He liked that wishy-washy avoidance of the proper term no better than he liked it when perfectly competent witches and wizards refused to say the Dark Lord's name. He himself had not been able to bear it in their presence, but that was the fault of the Mark, and the Mark affected him no longer. "Think logically for a moment, if you can. The events and experiences of your life leave a permanent impact on your soul, no matter how small it is. They are the things which make you what you are. Seminal experiences leave the most powerful imprint, of course, and therefore it is appropriate that you should know about them."

He wanted to swear, creatively and loudly. The world had finally gone completely mad if it was now _appropriate_ to share the darkest details of his life with a nineteen year old girl not even out of school.

"So things that have happened to me will affect you as well?"

He inclined his head. "I have you at a disadvantage, Miss Granger. I have been a witness to every important event of your life since you were eleven years old."

"Not every event," she muttered with a hint of rebelliousness. It came as a bit of a surprise to him. Her tone had been quiet and rather blank throughout their exchange.

"Perhaps not," he said thoughtfully. "But there is, unfortunately, time to fill in those holes."

She flinched. He'd said it was unfortunate… he _did_ have to throw that dig in there, didn't he? Damn her eyes.

"I… it's not really my business, but what was Damien Wilkes talking to you about yesterday?"

Something tightened and went cold in the area of his heart. Of all the questions she could have asked him about the past, why did it have to be that one which was the very _first_?

"Not yesterday," he said with a sort of quiet despair. "Two days ago."

"Two days ago, then."

He steepled his fingers, looking down at them and saying nothing. "Why," he said, watching from behind his hair as she crumbled a piece of the cheese into pieces on her plate, "do you wish to know?"

She bit down on her lip. "I need something else to think about," she whispered.

Guilt twisted in him like a knife, and he thought of the pathetic scene he'd witnessed earlier that day. Of course she needed something else to think about. He clenched his hands into fists, listening to the quiet popping of his knuckles as he did. For God's sake, did it have to be _that_?

She seemed to think that his silence meant he needed prompting to begin the story, and she mumbled, "He… what did he want to know if you'd put in a jar?"

"This is not a story you will wish to hear, Miss Granger."

That seemed to get her back up, and she stuck her lower lip out in something that would have been a pout, if she didn't look so mournful. A muscle tightened in the vicinity of her jaw, and he suddenly appreciated how it was that she managed to keep her otherwise incorrigible friends under some degree of control.

"If you can tell it, I can hear it," she said stubbornly.

He frowned, rather stung by that. "Very well. But do not ask any more questions until I have finished. I would prefer not to be interrupted."

"As usual," she muttered. He pretended not to hear.

"The… nature of my relationship with Lily Evans is now common knowledge. I will not repeat facts that you already know. My relationship with Damien Wilkes appears to be of slightly less interest to the public. To give it to you in a very brief summary, we were school friends."

She'd pushed the tray aside, and he noted that she'd cleaned her plate. He filed the information away to report to Minerva later, who would surely wish to know. "What you most assuredly do _not_ know," he continued, "is that I…" he stopped abruptly. How could he bear putting these things into words? How could she bear listening to them? She had the same look of expectant curiosity that she so often wore in the classroom, but now it pierced through him. He closed his eyes. If she insisted that she was strong enough to listen, he would not be the weaker of the two. He would tell her.

"I begged for her life, Miss Granger. I fell before the Dark Lord and promised him anything, anything in exchange for her safety. I had recently given him a very valuable piece of information—"

"The prophecy," she said, momentarily derailing his thoughts. He blinked at her.

"Yes," he answered slowly, not asking how she knew. "The prophecy. He was… pleased with me for that, I believe. He agreed to spare her life. She, however, was not willing to step aside and let him kill her son."

Her eyes were like gimlets, boring into him. He stood up and turned his back on her, pretending to examine a painting on the wall and speaking over his shoulder. Anything to avoid that look. "I discovered later that he was most unhappy with me for my attachment to… Lily." Could he not tell the story without halting at every turn? He scowled darkly.

"Wilkes, it seems, was in his confidence. Before he went to Godric's Hollow, the Dark Lord boasted of the punishment he had planned for my… indiscretion. He planned to spare her, oh yes, but he also planned to cut off her wand hand as payment for her life, and give it to me."

He heard the soft gasp that he expected. Picking up a book, he examined it with what he hoped passed for idleness, pretending to read its cover. "When Potter overcame him, Wilkes completed a descent into madness that had begun long before. He went to Godric's Hollow and waited until she was buried."

Something hard seemed to become stuck in his throat and he had to swallow several times before it retreated. "He exhumed her body and he removed her hand, as the Dark Lord had intended."

"Oh, God," she whispered. He winced.

"Indeed, Miss Granger. He was not the first Death Eater to come to me at Spinner's End. Many considered it a safe haven in which to mourn and plan their escape from the Ministry. He was distraught when he arrived, and I let him in. I had no reason not to."

He closed his eyes again, his imagination returning to that day. Wilkes' face was haggard and twisted, the madness in his eyes mirroring that of their master. Severus, so newly aware of and hungry for goodness and mercy, had found it utterly repellent.

"But he was not there to commiserate over the Dark Lord's death. He took me into a private room and gave me a box. I did not know—how could I know what it was? I took it and I opened it. I knew then what it…. She wore a ring. Not her wedding ring. She wore _that_ on her other hand." His eyes were still closed, and he could see it before his eyes. A nondescript silver ring, a first, shy love-gift from a teenaged boy who'd spent a year squirreling away every spare penny.

"I recognized it because I had given it to her, several years before. Wilkes could not have known its origins. He had no reason for counterfeit." Wilkes' mad, maniacal laughter rang in his ears and he shuddered, his skin crawling.

He realized he was still gripping the book, and he set it down on the bookshelf again carefully. His voice was colored with self-loathing when he spoke again:

"I should have killed him then, but I did not. Who knew if the Dark Lord was really dead? I had to keep my cover, at least for a little while longer. I accepted it meekly and gave him dinner before he returned to his own home. A few weeks later, the Aurors reported him killed, and I could do nothing but hate his memory as much as I hated the Dark Lord's."

He settled into blessed silence at last, keeping his back to her. She seemed to be holding her breath. All he could hear were the telltale sounds of his own body, persistently being alive.

"Why doesn't Harry know?" she asked finally.

"Nobody knows, foolish girl!" he snapped, turning around to give her the full extent of his anger. "Who was I to tell? Not even Dumbledore knew. It was a desecration! Would you have had me expose it to the world?"

"What did you… do with it?" she whispered, horrified.

He could not keep his voice from shaking. Was he to lose all of his self-control because of this girl? "I buried it," he said hoarsely. There were tears swimming in her eyes and she was most certainly looking straight at him now, intense pity written on her face. He wanted to sneer at her, to hurt her as badly as he could for forcing him to tell her this.

Her bottom lip quivered. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. Nobody deserves for that to happen to them."

Severus could not bear it. He fled.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Phew. Another chapter done. 

Thanks, as usual, to RenitaLeandra and JunoMagic, for indispensable help and forbearance with my constant nattering about the story.

And, of course, endless thanks to you, reviewers. You are my motivation and my inspiration.


	36. Alone Together

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, except for the plot. You know the drill.

* * *

**Chapter 36: Alone Together**

* * *

The Brisbane airport was very large, very brightly lit, and very full of people. Severus, feeling intensely uncomfortable in his Muggle clothes, walked as close to Miss Granger as was decently possible. She seemed to know what she was doing, and he was adept enough at reading social cues to behave convincingly as though he did as well. He was, after all, the professor in this situation, and ought to be on top of things. It irked him that people like Minerva constantly assumed he was acquainted with all the intricacies of Muggle life, but he had no problem with allowing Miss Granger to continue in that misconception for the time being. 

There were Muggles everywhere, of course, and he did his best not to look discomfited by the fact. His father had devoted many years to convincing him that he did not belong in non-magical society. Oh, he could dress like a Muggle, and live like a Muggle, but when it came to actually being comfortable with them, he shied away. He was not part of their world, and if they knew what he was, they would not wish him to be. It was one of the earliest life lessons he'd been given.

It didn't help that he was wearing pink.

The Aurors had indeed managed to find an acceptable enough outfit. It was wholly nondescript: jeans, a belt, and a polo shirt. A polo shirt that was a pale, faded shade of pink. He'd tried to argue, but there simply hadn't been time to press his point as far as he normally would have.

"It's insufferable, Minerva," he'd growled, balling up the shirt in his hands. She, for her part, professed to see nothing wrong with it.

"Technically," she'd pointed out, "the only thing you refused to wear was a dress."

"Only because it never entered my wildest dreams that anybody would suggest that I wear something like _this_."

Her mouth had twitched so violently that it looked like she was hiding a chocolate frog in it. "I'm told it's very fashionable these days, Severus."

"As if I ever cared about such things."

"Ah, but apparently the Australian Aurors do. You'll simply have to bear it, Severus, there's no time to change things now. You and Hermione need to leave for the airport immediately or you're going to be late."

"Where will I keep my wand? There's no place to conceal a wand in these clothes!"

"Hide it under your shirt," suggested the Auror who had brought the clothes to him, piping up for the first time. He'd fled to a corner when Severus' temper had exploded. It was vaguely satisfying to know that living under the constant influence of Hermione Granger hadn't sapped his ability to terrify at will.

"There, Severus, you see? Tuck it under the shirt. I'm sure you'll be able to keep track of it. Now, go put it on, and be quick about it."

"We're going to Apparate, and the flight is not due to leave for nearly three hours."

"I'm told that they expect passengers to be there very early so that their security people can give you a once-over. Now, help Hermione with her things and go."

And so here he was, standing in an endless line of Muggles, with Hermione Granger at his side. It certainly ranked high up on his personal list of deeply uncomfortable situations.

Miss Granger, for her part, seemed completely unconcerned, although she was also preternaturally quiet. He could count on one hand the number of things she'd said to him since their discussion of Wilkes and Lily the previous day. He deeply regretted telling her anything about it. He should have left himself the right to refuse to answer any of her questions when he gave her permission to ask, but somehow it hadn't occurred to him at the time. That, he supposed, was proof that he was growing unconscionably lax since his spying days were over.

It didn't surprise him in the slightest that once her initial pity and shock had faded, they were replaced by disgust. Nobody who knew secrets like those he kept hidden in the deep recesses of his heart could be comfortable with him, he was sure. He knew that she would no longer be able to look at him without remembering the story. He avoided speaking to her as much as she avoided speaking to him. He did not wish to be reminded of that particular incident every time he tried to have a conversation.

The queue moved forward, and he gave her a sidelong glance. She was drawn and silent, and stubbornly looked straight ahead. She'd taken some of her mother's clothes from a closet and was dressed in them now—casual jeans and a rather oversized green hooded jumper. The color looked surprisingly good on her, he found, which surprised him. It had never occurred to him to think that she might look suitable in green.

After a nearly interminable wait, it was time to present themselves to the Muggle security people. He hefted her bag onto a conveyor belt that took it through some sort of machine (he would not for the life of him ask her what it was). A Muggle in a uniform instructed him to remove all metal from his person and deposit it in a flimsy-looking plastic basket. He followed Miss Granger's lead and emptied his pockets of the Muggle money that Minerva had provided him with and then passed his ticket to another uniformed man.

As he moved forward, someone jostled him from behind and his wand slipped out from beneath his shirt and clattered onto the floor. Only years of espionage training kept him from swearing aloud, lest he draw even more attention to it.

"What's this?" asked one the man, bending over and picking it up before Severus could grab it. Miss Granger froze. A few people turned to look curiously at them, and Severus forced a nonchalant look onto his face.

"Looks like a knitting needle, doesn't it?" said another airport worker curiously.

"Nah," said the first one. "Too thick. What is this, mister—" he glanced at the ticket in his hands "—Snape?"

He hadn't bothered to inspect the ticket before they arrived at the airport. He made a mental note to have a word with Minerva about using his real name on a Muggle plane ticket while he was in the company of a female student. A healthy refusal to assume that nobody would recognize you had kept him alive many times in the past.

"Oh!" said Miss Granger with patently false brightness, her voice breaking into his irritation with Minerva and scattering it. "It's—er—it's just a toy, actually. For my nephew, you know. We're going to visit him in London, you see, and he's awfully fond of magic tricks."

The second security man blinked. "Oh, _that_ kind of toy," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I thought at first you meant it was… something else." He cleared his throat. Miss Granger turned an unpleasant shade of crimson, and Severus was perturbed to know that he'd probably done the same.

The first man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "If it's a toy for your nephew, what was he hiding it in his shirt for?"

Severus thought quickly. "I intended to surprise him with it in the airport," he said, doing his best to downplay the habitual sneer in his voice. "Sleight of hand, you know."

"Well, we'll need to run it through the X-ray just to be sure there's nothing concealed in it."

"Send it on through then, Harris, and let's have a look."

The security man, whose name was apparently Harris, passed it to the second man, who placed it on the conveyor belt. Severus watched it disappear with an unpleasant sense of dread. It was one thing to surrender his wand for inspection at a Portkey Station. It was another thing entirely to give it to Muggles and let _them_ look at it.

After a few moments, the man running the machine frowned. "That's odd," he muttered. Miss Granger's face went white and he saw her fingers twitch toward her sleeve, where her own wand was hidden. He caught her eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, then gave a significant glance around at the crowds of Muggles that surrounded them. Her hand fell back to her side.

"What's odd?" snapped Harris, who seemed to be in charge, and who Severus decided was entirely too suspicious a person by nature.

"It's not registering whatever's inside of it. I can see that it's _something_, but I can't tell what."

Severus blinked. Of course they wouldn't be able to see the core of his wand. It had never occurred to him to wonder what would happen if a Muggle X-rayed a wand.

Harris elbowed his way past the other security man. "Let me see!"

They all gathered in front of a small screen, staring at it and discussing it in undertones that Severus could not catch.

"Right," said Harris finally, "can't see anything exactly _dangerous_, but there's something off about it and I don't like it. You can put it in your checked luggage, or you can leave it behind, but you can't carry it inside the airport."

Miss Granger gasped loudly, then glanced at him and turned bright red again, realizing a moment too late that it would do nothing to diminish the suspicion they were under if she protested.

"Certainly," Severus said quickly, giving Harris a nod and doing the best he could to smother his sense of panic at the thought of enduring the plane flight without his wand. She would still have hers, after all, barring another disaster, and he could at least use that if it came to an emergency in which she was unable to defend them. He felt sick.

"We weren't checking any luggage, though," she said hesitantly.

"That's quite all right, Hermione," he said, as warmly as he could. They were meant to be traveling companions, after all, and it would raise Harris' suspicions even more if Severus acted cold and distant with her.

"We can check that." He pointed to the smallish bag that she carried. She tightened her grip on it momentarily, and he raised his eyebrows. He had no bloody idea how he was going to survive the approaching ordeal without his wand, but if he could attempt it for the sake of preserving their relative anonymity, she could certainly do without a bag.

"Oh," she said, giving a little sigh and placing the bag on the metal counter with a forlorn expression. "Of course."

He put the wand in the bag and they handed it over to the airport people, who looked at his ticket again, slapped some sort of sticker on the bag, and sent it away with yet another uniformed person—a woman, this time. As it disappeared from his view, his panic grew nearly uncontrollable, and he had a sudden wild desire to run and fetch it back, suspicious or not.

Miss Granger gave him a sympathetic look and laid her hand on his bare arm. He jumped and pulled back from her. She yanked her hand away immediately, with a self-conscious look in the direction of the security people. Merlin, the girl had no subtlety at all. He was surprised she didn't find a bit of cardboard and write 'I'm hiding something' on it. It would have been simpler for all involved.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Didn't mean to startle you."

He very carefully did _not _glance at them, but shrugged apologetically. "My fault," he said. "I get… jumpy… before I fly. You know that." He leaned over her and pretended to pull a bit of fluff from her hair. Under his voice he hissed, "Stop continually looking at them like that, girl. It makes you look guilty when you're checking over and over again to see if they've noticed your mistakes."

He drew away and she smiled fondly at him, although the look in her eyes more closely approximated that of a trapped and terrified animal.

"All right," said Harris, still looking at them suspiciously. "Go ahead and go on through. You'll get your toy back when you get to London. Have a good flight."

"Thank you," said Severus politely, stepping through the metal detector. He collected his money on the other side and slipped it into his pocket. It jingled pleasantly.

They made it through to the other side without further incident, and Miss Granger looked down at their tickets and then back up, studying the dizzying array of signs that littered the walls and ceilings.

"This way," she said at length, setting off down a corridor. He followed, feeling horribly naked and jumpy without his wand. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been without it for more than a minute or two, and that had always been in the privacy and security of his own chambers. What had they been thinking, giving him clothes with no good place in which to hide his wand? Damn Minerva, damn the Aurors, and damn Hermione Granger.

0 0 0

After making it through security, there was nothing left for them but a long, silent wait to board the plane. Hermione occupied herself with trying to look at him without letting him know that she was looking. He'd stood up and walked to a large observation window, staring out at the planes as they landed and took off. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes roaming the airport and seeming to absorb, in a matter of mere seconds, everything that could be seen.

Utterly unwilling to think about the fact that Aurors were, at that very moment, taking her parents to be buried, Hermione occupied herself instead with wondering what might be going through Professor Snape's mind.

He looked so different in his Muggle clothes that he was almost unrecognizable. Several times she'd glanced away and looked back, only to be terrified that he'd disappeared when in fact she simply hadn't realized it was him. It was not a change that she particularly liked.

It was very clear that he didn't like it either.

It was very clear that he didn't like _any_ of it. The vast amounts of guilt that lurked in the back of her mind began once again to creep up on her. If not for her, he would not be here. If not for her, her parents would be alive. No wonder he was pacing around, avoiding her. She'd stolen his privacy, forced him to come halfway across the world, and now he'd ended up trapped in an airport without a wand, with only her for company.

She didn't know what possessed her to do it, but she thought of Harry and Voldemort, and the way that Voldemort had reached into Harry's mind, reading his thoughts from afar. She knew nothing of Legilimency, but she wasn't sure she needed to. She didn't have to force her way into his thoughts--she had an opening ready-made for her. Perhaps it was some desire to torture herself that made her do it, or simply dull curiosity, a tangential question to ask that would keep her from asking the questions that broke her heart to think of.

Whatever it was, she stared at him with all of her concentration and attempted to brush up against his soul.

At first, nothing happened. She had no idea what to look for, had no idea what things in the last six months had been her own emotions and which had been his. She tried again, with no success. Initially, she'd done it out of a sort of despairing need for distraction. Having failed twice, though, stubborn frustration kept her trying.

He turned around for another inspection of the terminal, and his eyes met hers.

Instantly, she was in his mind. She could not say how she knew it, but she knew it. It was hazy and unclear, and she could interpret none of what she saw, but she'd touched him.

His face went utterly white with rage, and his eyes made her recall the unpleasant moment when he'd learned that Sirius Black had escaped. It took him only seconds to cross the distance between them and he stared down at her, practically quivering with anger. She drew back into her seat, her Gryffindor bravery and boldness fleeing before the terrifying look on that face.

He leaned over her, his eyes narrow and black. She had never had occasion to notice before how black they really were, as though their color had been sucked away to leave only a void.

Only it wasn't a void. It was a raging maelstrom of anger.

"If you have a question," he hissed softly, "_ask_ me."

0 0 0

He felt it immediately when their eyes met. Her presence was oddly familiar and she fumbled horribly, only just grazing against the surface of his thoughts. He forced her out immediately, pulling a barrier up so quickly that it startled even him.

He felt like a fool. He'd been so discomfited by the loss of his wand that he'd forgotten to keep his Occlumentic shields up, and of course that _would_ be the moment that she decided to start experimenting.

But he could not let her do that. It was too dangerous, and far, far too intimate. Once those pathways were built, it would be nearly impossible to break them down, and it would become easier for her to slip past his barriers every time that she tried it. The thought terrified him and he stalked over to her, his hands trembling.

"If you have a question, _ask_ me," he said desperately. Anything other than forcing her way into his mind and reading his thoughts. She cringed, looking away from him with a terrified expression. So much the better, if she misinterpreted his distress as anger. He didn't know if she'd done it on purpose or not, but it was dangerous. Bad enough to share those things inadvertently. A hundred times worse to do it on purpose. What was she _thinking_?

0 0 0

As abruptly as his fury had appeared, it dissipated and he sat down beside her. She carefully didn't look at him, wishing that she could slide over to another seat without irritating him further. He'd gone back to looking around, studying each face in turn again and again.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling like a fool.

"There are better ways to find answers, Miss Granger," he said brusquely.

"I can't do this," said Hermione, her voice quavering.

Professor Snape ceased his anxious surveillance of the airport for just a moment—long enough to narrow his eyes at her and no more. Only when she was once more looking at the back of his head did he speak:

"It is too late for that, Miss Granger. You have no choice but to do it."

He didn't bother asking her which 'this' she was referring to. She supposed it didn't matter. The statement applied to everything that was happening in her life. She sniffed loudly. He didn't look at her again.

"I want to go home."

He pursed his lips, looking irritated. "You are."

"No," she said faintly. "I don't mean Britain. I mean _home_."

"You may insist on being obscure, Miss Granger, but do not expect me to attempt to make an analysis of your banal puzzles."

That stung. She began to fidget with her arm, rubbing at a spot with her thumb as though to clean it. "I don't know how else to say it. I don't mean I want to go to Hogwarts, or Grimmauld Place, or anywhere in Britain. I just want to go _home_."

"A feeling, not a place," he murmured, so softly that she wasn't quite sure it was intended for her ears.

Before she could decide whether or not to ask about it, a hollow-sounding voice boomed through the terminal, announcing that it was time to begin boarding. They stood and waited in yet another queue, and did not even look at one another again until they were seated and the plane had begun to taxi down the runway.

He'd given her the window seat. Hermione loved to fly, and as the plane began to gather speed, she watched out the window as the scenery passed by. An arm bumped hers and she looked to see that he'd gripped both armrests, his knuckles gone completely white.

The plane lurched slightly as it began to rise off the ground, leaving Hermione's stomach behind. Professor Snape let go of the armrests and carefully folded his hands in his lap, avoiding the windows as they began to rise steadily into the air. She looked back out, watching the ground fall away from them, and swearing to herself never to tell anyone else that Professor Snape was afraid of flying.

It was, after all, the least she could do.

0 0 0

After the initial jolt of takeoff, Severus found that flying was not as bad as he'd feared. In fact, his only real complaint was the utter boredom and his continued anxiety about being wandless. He had no sense of being in motion, and it occurred to him that flying was rather like being sentenced to Azkaban, now that the Dementors were gone--a very well lit, warm Azkaban. There was nothing but tedium and a vague sense of loneliness, in spite of being surrounded by other people.

The cabin was quiet, except for the distant, dull roar of the engines and a few muffled voices somewhere far from them. The air was stale-smelling and horribly dry, except for the faint trace of perfume from beside him. He recognized it as her mother's scent, which he'd found in the master bedroom and anointed her body with. Miss Granger hadn't moved in some time, and Severus glanced over at her casually, hoping to assure himself that she was peacefully asleep.

But she wasn't. Her eyes were open, and her forehead was resting up against the double-paned window. She seemed to be gazing down at the endless expanse of water beneath them. Her hair was down, and he was glad of it, although he hadn't told her so. She looked more natural that way. Something about the severe knot that she'd forced her hair into for so many months did not fit her at all. This was far less jarring and would garner less notice as a result. It fell around her like a cloud and he had an odd, momentary longing to touch it and see if it would dissolve beneath his fingers like a real cloud would.

He scowled and re-crossed his legs for the umpteenth time, struggling to find a comfortable position. Ennui and anxiety were clearly twisting his mind. He thumbed through a magazine that some previous passenger had left behind, but there was nothing interesting in it. He wished that he had his wand. If he had his wand, he could relax and sit bloody still, instead of fidgeting like a child. He was not a man to fidget, in normal circumstances.

Of all the times for her to stop talking, it had to be now.

He stole another look at her. She hadn't moved, but as he watched, she snuggled down into her seat and raised her arm to her face, burying her nose in her sleeve. For a moment he thought of offering her his handkerchief, as she seemed to need something to wipe her nose on, but then she inhaled deeply and he realized with a start that she was _smelling_ it.

That would, of course, be where the scent of her mother's perfume was coming from. The moment he realized it, he turned his head away, mortified at having witnessed such a thing. It was so obviously private that he believed he'd have felt more comfortable at walking in on her without clothes on than he was seeing such an intimate display of loss and loneliness.

Without a word, he immediately stood up and made his way through the narrow aisle toward the back of the plane. He had no need or desire to avail himself of the facilities, but he locked himself in anyway and waited long enough to make his absence convincing. Then he washed his face and hands, patted them dry, and returned to the seat.

She seemed to be holding herself artificially in place as he sat down, and he sighed in spite of himself. Her profound unease left him feeling guilty and self-conscious, and he crossed his arms, leaning as far back in his seat as he could and closing his eyes. If she thought he was asleep, it would at least give her a bit of respite from his company.

It was the shaking that made him open his eyes again. They weren't touching, but he could sense her movement beside him, and he gave in to the impulse to look.

She was curled in on herself, tears streaming down her face, although she made no noise. He wondered if she was hiding it or simply attempting to be considerate of those around her. He didn't know how long he watched. Something about the plane seemed to deprive him of all sense of time. It was simply an endless stasis, and she became part of it, until her shudders began to still and she drifted once more into sleep.

She'd done hardly anything but sleep and cry since he'd reached Australia. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised by it. It was better than many of her alternatives. He'd expected her to be much more vocal about her grief, but she hadn't, except for a few moments in which she degenerated into incomprehensible, nervous babbling. He was beginning to prefer even that to her miserable silence.

He was restless, but he couldn't get up, couldn't pace or patrol. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he simply wasn't going to sleep until he was safely off the plane and reunited with his wand, and he needed something to think about.

So, as she slept, he began to study her. She was a mystery to him, this small, grief-worn woman. It was a bizarre miracle that such a young, relatively innocent thing could have reached out into the void and grabbed hold of his soul so tightly that now she could not let go. What emotion could she possibly have felt about him that was strong enough to allow her to do that?

He'd spent so long being afraid of her intrusiveness when she discovered the odd window she'd gained into his heart, but his fears seemed now to be unjustified. Instead of seeking him out, she did her best to avoid him. The questions he'd dreaded answering had, by and large, not come. It was almost disappointing, in a way, to have prepared himself for them and have it come to naught. It struck him now how strange it was that he'd never considered what she had been feeling when it happened.

Her eyelashes were so long that it surprised him. He'd never examined such things about her before, but now as they rested on her cheeks, he could not tear his eyes away. She was entirely unthreatening and entirely frightening at the same time, a complete contradiction in terms.

"What are you?" he whispered as he stared at her. She stirred in her sleep and turned her head away from him so that her hair fell across her face and obscured his view of her.

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd reached out to move it aside. His hand froze only a millimeter or two from that tangle of curls. What the hell was he doing? If he touched her, she would awaken and demand an explanation, and he had none. His only defense was his sudden fascination with the enigma of her soul, and he doubted that she would take that very well, even if he could get over his own mortification sufficiently to allow him to explain it at all.

He flexed his fingers slightly, touching one curl with the very edge of one of them. She didn't move, and he gained a little courage, moving his hand by degrees until he'd caught the mass of hair in his fingers and could draw it aside.

He pulled it back just enough to see the outline of her face at first, and then studied it carefully. If she had been feigning sleep, he would be able to see it. But the tension was gone from her face, the muscles were slack, and her eyelids did not so much as flicker when her hair moved. Long minutes (or was it hours?) passed as he looked at her face, reassuring himself that she was still asleep.

Then he carefully, carefully moved the hair behind her ear.

His fingertip brushed the bottom of her earlobe as he moved his hand away, and he felt a swift flash of emotion, a fleeting image of painful dreams and almost unbearable sorrow and guilt. It nearly overwhelmed him with its intensity, but it passed away so quickly when his hand left her skin that he almost didn't believe he'd felt it at all. She drew a deep, shaking breath and her mouth fell open slightly.

She was not beautiful, but there was a sort of poignant loveliness in her grief that reminded him of his mother and of his last encounter with Lily. The comparisons disturbed him and tugged queerly at his heart. The war should never have touched someone like her. He remembered the girl she had been, seemingly too vibrant to be crushed, and wondered what had become of her.

Losing himself in those thoughts, Severus watched over her protectively, his gaze never moving as the hours passed away.

0 0 0

Hermione awoke suddenly and completely. She had no idea what time it was, or how long she'd been sleeping. How many hours were left before they arrived in London and she had to return to the real world?

Her neck ached and she sat up carefully, twisting her head to stretch. Professor Snape sat beside her, stiff and unmoving, his arms crossed, just as she'd seen him sitting countless times in the past. His hair fell forward and hid his face from her, but his fingers drummed slowly across his arm and she was quite sure he was awake.

She'd just begun to resign herself to his silence and curse herself for not stopping to buy a paperback in the airport when he spoke:

"I trust you slept well," he said.

"I don't know," she answered confusedly. Had she? She examined herself uncertainly, wondering if she felt more rested than she had before. Certainly she felt relieved and rather pleasantly drained, much as she had after visiting her parents' bodies.

He turned to look at her, quirking one eyebrow. "I see," was all he said.

"I don't know where to go when we get to London," she said in a sudden rush. She desperately needed to talk about it, and there was nobody else but him.

He gave her a long, considering glance. "I am given to understand that you frequently spend Christmas with the Weasleys."

She wondered who had given him to understand that, and shrugged, looking out the window. "I used to."

"Ah," he said. It was less than she'd hoped for. She felt oddly compelled to keep talking, dreading the awkward silence that they would surely lapse into if she stopped.

"I can't, this year."

He shifted in his seat, moving his legs in an effort to stretch them out as much as possible. "I see," he said, sounding as though he didn't see at all and like he'd probably rather she shut up.

She bit her lip. "I don't want to spend Christmas around Ron."

She needed to talk about it. She needed to tell someone. Who better to tell than him, who had revealed his most painful secret to her? She desperately hoped that he would take the hint and ask her why not, but he simply looked down, his hair hiding even his nose from her now. She wanted to reach out and move it so she could see his face.

"As Deputy Headmaster of the school, it is my duty to assure you that Hogwarts is always open to you, Miss Granger."

Of all the things he could have said, that was not what she was expecting somehow. In spite of the usual sarcastic tone of his voice, which seemed to be so habitual that he could not remove it, the words were obviously meant to be kind. She was struck by the insight. Once she would have heard only the tone of voice, only the sneer behind the words. Now she listened to the words themselves and was comforted by them.

"I... wish I hadn't spent so many Christmases with the Weasleys. I could have seen my mum and dad, and I didn't," she whispered, confessing one of the thoughts that had haunted her for a year and a half.

He sniffed, with a gesture that managed to encompass the entire plane. "You are not part of this world, Miss Granger. It is to be expected that you would not feel entirely comfortable here."

Was he... trying to comfort her? The idea was so strange that she couldn't formulate an answer for several moments.

"They were my parents, though," she said, furrowing her brow.

"They are your parents yet. Have Potter's misadventures taught you nothing of death, girl? Or did you think that only Wizards passed into the next life?" he sneered.

"I... hadn't thought of that."

"Clearly."

Silence threatened them again, and she pushed on. "I just can't seem to stop thinking about it. I try to distract myself, and if it's not my parents, it's W-Wilkes, and I keep seeing..." she trailed off, shuddering.

"Give me your wand, Miss Granger."

She blinked. "What?"

"Your _wand_. Give it to me."

She glanced around hesitantly and then slipped it out of her sleeve, handing it over to him without a question. He gave her a strange look, as though he'd expected her to resist, but then he made a swift motion and muttered, "_Muffliato_."

He handed the wand back to her. "I wish to ask you a question, Miss Granger."

She waited anxiously. It didn't make her any more comfortable to know he was about to ask her something that he clearly believed could not be discussed in the hearing of their fellow passengers.

"I... need to know," he said slowly, "what curse you cast on Damien Wilkes, and where you learned it."

0 0 0

She looked frightened. Still, quid pro quo was only fair. He'd revealed a secret the day before, which clearly made it her turn. He waited.

"I didn't learn it," she said softly. He frowned.

"Explain yourself, Miss Granger."

"It's a... variation on Sectumsempra," she admitted, twisting the hem of her jumper in both hands.

He closed his eyes. That answered _that _question, then. "Where did you... discover it, if you didn't learn it?"

"I don't know." She was chewing on her lip so hard that it was a marvel she hadn't made it bleed yet. "It just... came to me."

His eyebrows shot up of their own accord and he turned to look full at her, forgetting for the moment his unwillingness to meet her eyes. "It _came_ to you?"

The muscles in her jaw worked as she swallowed. "I didn't know what I was going to say until I opened my mouth. I think I must have made it up."

"Apparently," he murmured. That certainly cast a new light on her, although ironically it was a light that did nothing to illuminate things.

"Professor?" she said, beginning to rub at her arms again. He had a creeping worry that she was developing some sort of bizarre neurosis about the blood that had spattered all over her.

"You have a question?"

"Sort of. I--I don't want to take Potions anymore," she said in a rush, looking more frightened than ever.

It was odd, he thought, that after he'd spent so much energy lobbying for that very thing with Minerva, he was not happy to hear it from Miss Granger.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: As usual, thanks to RenitaLeandra, Harmony, and JunoMagic. Sorry for whining so much about this chapter. 

Reviewers, je t'aime. You are all wonderful.

Poor Snape. Pink, really.. I ask you.


	37. The Day Breaks Not It Is My Heart

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 37: The Day Breaks Not; It Is My Heart**

* * *

In his supposition that he would be unable to sleep on the plane, Severus proved entirely correct. After Miss Granger made her pronouncement regarding Potions lessons, they had finally lapsed back into what Severus now viewed as blessed silence. She dozed fitfully, sometimes uttering soft cries as some unknown nightmare tortured her. He made an effort not to look, and instead divided his time between lesson planning and berating himself for rushing after her like a fool in the first place.

At what he supposed must be around dinnertime by someone's reckoning, they were provided with meals. Miss Granger picked at hers with a look of distaste, and so Severus made a show of eating all of his with at least tolerance, if he could not pretend gusto. It was poorly cooked and badly seasoned, but it was food, and he was feeling contrary.

There was a stopover somewhere. He didn't care, beyond what it took to ascertain that nobody suspicious was following them. They were back on another plane soon enough, and back to the endless, timeless monotony.

Eventually, though, it did end. They began to spiral downwards and finally touched British land again. Severus felt a sudden acceleration of his heartbeat at the thought of getting at his wand. As a result, of course, it took an age for them to be allowed off the plane, and even longer to locate Hermione's bag and get it to a place where he could take anything out of it.

His fingers literally itched to get his wand back. The moment there was any chance for him to get at the bag in privacy, Miss Granger held it out to him without a word. He made immediately for the bathroom, locking himself carefully into a stall before he reached into the bag and snatched his wand out of it.

The long, thin piece of ebony felt blissfully familiar and comfortable in his hands. He knew he'd need to improvise some sort of way to conceal it without running the risk of dropping it again, but first he took a moment to simply hold it. Nearly all of the tension and agitation that had plagued him for the last eighteen hours evaporated, and he noticed for the first time how profoundly tired he was.

But the time had not yet come for rest, and he couldn't leave Miss Granger unprotected for long. If she was threatened again, this time while under his watch, Minerva would never forgive him. He tugged his shirt off, transfigured it into something long-sleeved and green, and donned it again, feeling immensely thankful that his wand hadn't gone missing somewhere along the way. He could never have brought himself to borrow hers for the purpose of altering his clothing, but now he had the excuse of the cold winter weather to cover up some fraction of his pride.

When he emerged again, his wand carefully hidden, he immediately noted the four red heads that now clustered around Miss Granger. She looked unconscionably sleepy in light of how much rest she'd had on the plane.

"Severus!" cried Molly, beaming at him as he approached. "I can't tell you how grateful we are to you for rescuing Hermione."

She had her arm around the girl, and Severus had the impression that he'd interrupted her in the midst of a long stream of condolences and fussing. Miss Granger looked rather relieved to see him.

"Do not bother attempting it, Molly," he said sourly. "I have no desire to listen to your raptures over the fact that I adequately discharged my duty towards another Order member."

"Well, she's not just another Order member to _us_, Severus. She's practically our daughter, even if it's not official yet."

Miss Granger looked stricken. Arthur Weasley, not looking at all well, gave her a rather guilty look. George and Percy (damn the whole family for being so numerous that he could not reduce them to surnames) said nothing at all.

"Enough standing and talking," said Arthur uncomfortably. "There's the car outside. Molly's cooked up quite a dinner, Severus—"

"I do not intend to eat dinner."

"Nonsense! It's Christmas Eve and we owe you Hermione's life." Molly gave Miss Granger a motherly pat on the shoulder. Miss Granger, for her part, turned a delicate and rather pretty shade of green.

He frowned. "I am required at Hogwarts, Molly."

"Hogwarts can wait while you have some good, home-cooked food. Now get in the car."

He was on the point of protesting again when he caught Miss Granger's eye. She looked at him with a sort of pleading desperation and he was forcibly struck with an idea of how little _he'd _enjoy a dinner alone with the Weasleys after going through all that she'd gone through.

He got in the car.

Bloody empathy.

0 0 0

The drive to the Burrow was long and loud. All of the Weasleys seemed determined to cover up the impact of the last few days with as much talking as possible, except for George. He'd simply reached out and briefly grasped her hand, turning his flat, haunted eyes on her for a moment and then retreating to Percy's side again.

Professor Snape sat with his arms crossed, staring gloomily out the window. Occasionally someone addressed a comment to him, which he either ignored or answered in a curt monosyllable. Nobody found it particularly surprising, and they'd all long since got past being offended by mere taciturnity, when it came from him.

Hermione, for her part, was simply relieved that he hadn't abandoned her to Ron's family. It was terribly awkward being around them, given all that had happened, but she didn't have the energy to break the news to them. She considered it to be a permanent split, although she felt relatively sure that she'd need to spell it out to him. Besides her reticence, though, it _was _Christmas Eve, after all, and the Weasleys _were_ practically family, even if their son was a prat. Better spend the evening with them than despondent and alone in Gryffindor tower.

Charlie met them at the front gate and helped Hermione through the light covering of snow that lay on the ground. It wasn't deep, but it was slick and wet and she nearly lost her balance several times. She was glad for his support.

They'd never been closely acquainted, but she and Charlie were fond of one another in a distant, obligated sort of way. Like George, he seemed to understand the value of a little quiet sympathy in the face of the torrential comfort that his mother was raining down upon her.

The house smelled wonderful. Mrs. Weasley seemed to have completely outdone herself in the matter of baked goods both sweet and savory, and there appeared to be an Undetectable Extension Charm cast on the oven, because it contained far more food than it ought to be able to do. The aroma of gingerbread permeated everything, and the WWN was playing Celestina Warbeck.

Hermione thought of Christmas the year before, alone with Harry in Godric's Hollow. The singing made her think back to the year before that, with all of the Weasleys and their friends. Then she thought of her parents, and the decimated remains of their Christmas tree, lying on the floor in the aftermath of Wilkes' duel with Professor Snape.

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Weasley, tutting sympathetically and enveloping her in a very squashy, gingerbread-smelling hug. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. Everything will be quite all right again soon, you'll see."

It wasn't true at all, and Hermione knew it wasn't true, but it felt so good to be pressed against a motherly body and petted that she didn't really care. She cried hard, with an odd sense that it would likely be her last chance to cry on Mrs. Weasley's shoulder, and that she must, therefore, make the best of it.

The rest were coming into the kitchen now, with much shuffling and stamping of snowy feet. Hermione, catching sight of the disgusted look on Professor Snape's face, did her best to dry up, and managed to work herself down to a point where she was merely sniffling miserably. He was still carrying her knapsack and he excused himself with it almost immediately, disappearing into the bathroom.

Mrs. Weasley had somehow maneuvered her into one of the kitchen chairs, and placed a cup of very strong tea in front of her.

"Just drink that while I get dinner on the table, my dear. You've had an awfully long trip. Don't know how those Muggles do it, spending that many hours and going halfway across the world."

She kept up a steady stream of chatter in this vein while Charlie and Mr. Weasley joined Hermione at the table. Mrs. Weasley loaded George and Percy down with plates and silverware and sent them staggering away into the next room to set the table.

Professor Snape returned, having once more donned his Wizarding robes. Hermione decided that he looked very much the better for it. He set her bag down on the floor beside her, and she hoped that as a man who valued his own privacy so much, he'd had the decency to simply remove his robes from the top of her bag and not root through the rest of her things.

"Sit down, Severus," said Mrs. Weasley imperiously, waving her wand at a chair. It scuttled out from the table on its four legs, resembling nothing so much as a large, very oddly shaped crab. Professor Snape watched it curiously as it placed itself in front of him with a very authoritative thud. Mrs. Weasley was already pouring his tea, and by the time he had sat down, it was in front of him, fragrant steam wafting up from the cup. He lifted it slowly and held it in front of his nose, inhaling it with a look of deep appreciation.

"Hermione, you've just got time to go freshen up. I'm sure you don't want to stay in those things after wearing them for so long on the plane. Go and change, dear, and then we'll sit down."

Hermione, as it happened, most certainly did _not_ want to change, but she got up anyway, taking the bag with her and shutting herself in to the bathroom with a vague sense of relief at being alone for a moment.

There, amongst the cheery red and yellow tiles, she washed her face and made some effort to tidy her hair. Tucked carefully into a box at the bottom of her bag were the contents of her parents' bathroom cupboard. She selected a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste and cleaned her teeth. The mint aftertaste would be terrible with dinner, but her mouth felt sticky and sour, and she hated the feeling. It was worth an unpleasant aftertaste to feel clean again.

As she put the toothbrush away again, she looked down at her hands. They felt swollen and oddly tight after the dry air and pressure changes of the flight. Turning them this way and that, she remembered the blood that had speckled them so liberally after she killed Wilkes. It made her feel terribly unclean. She turned the water on and picked up a sweet-smelling bar of soap that she knew Mrs. Weasley had made herself.

It felt amazingly good. The water was cool and refreshing, and the soap covered her hands with thick, fragrant lather. This was the right thing to do. This made her feel better.

More than ten minutes later, there was a light tap at the door. "It's been fifteen minutes, Hermione, and mum says dinner's ready. You all right?"

She rinsed her hands off and dried them with a quick swipe at her jeans before she opened the door, feeling somewhat guilty.

"Sorry, Charlie. Didn't know it had been too long."

His eyes moved over her clothes. "I thought you were going to change."

"I didn't want to," she said, rather sharply. He stepped back, holding the door open for her.

"Sorry," she muttered. "It's just that I'm…fine, wearing what I've got right now."

0 0 0

"So tell me, Severus," said Arthur as he passed around a plate of turnips, his eyes shining, "how _do_ airplanes stay up?"

Charlie Weasley snorted into his soup and Molly rolled her eyes. Miss Granger lowered her head to hide an amused smile. Severus shrugged and finished chewing.

"By means of explosives," he said, once he'd swallowed. Arthur dropped his fork excitedly, staring at him.

"_Really_?" he cried. "But that's wonderful! You mean the same sort of principle that makes cars go?"

Severus sniffed. "The _principle_ is the same, yes, but there is of course an exponential difference in power between cars and planes. The force required to lift such a large object off the ground without magic is quite considerable."

"Yes, yes, yes, but how do they _stay_ up?" asked Arthur, who seemed to have forgotten his dinner completely.

"Through a combination of incredibly powerful propulsion and a great deal of sheer good luck."

Severus sliced carefully and precisely through a slice of goose. He did not particularly care for it—far too greasy for his taste—but Molly could be an absurd traditionalist sometimes, and she'd insisted on serving it.

"Amazing," murmured Arthur through a mouthful of food that he hadn't yet swallowed, in spite of having put it in his mouth before he'd brought up airplanes at all. "Truly marvelous, what Muggles have accomplished."

The rest of the meal passed in a flurry of inane chatter, rattling dishes, and a veritable avalanche of food. When it was finished, Severus accepted another cup of tea—he'd need it, if he intended to get back to Hogwarts awake.

Miss Granger also had another cup of tea. She really did look exhausted, he noted. Molly seemed to notice it as well, for she made yet another clucking motherish noise from behind the massive pile of plates that she was clearing from the table.

"It's about time you get to bed, Hermione," she said, piling still more plates into the heap. "Ron, Harry and Ginny are due back tomorrow, and we'll have a nice, quiet Christmas, all together again."

Miss Granger's right arm jerked, spilling hot tea all over Percy.

"Oh!" she squeaked, seizing her napkin and attempting to mop some of the tea up. "I—I'm actually… going back to Hogwarts," she said in a rush.

Severus raised his eyebrows in surprise, watching as she busied herself in attacking Percy's left arm with her napkin. Molly looked utterly dumbfounded.

"Whatever for?" she finally managed, the mountain of dishes quivering noisily in her hands.

Miss Granger's face had gone incredibly white, and she stood up, placing the tea soaked napkin beside her plate with a care that belied her appearance. "I want to be alone tomorrow," she said in a strange, tight voice. The room had suddenly got very quiet.

"I understand," said Molly slowly, looking as though she didn't understand at all. Miss Granger made an odd, choked noise.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "D-dinner was lovely, Mrs. Weasley, and I wish I could stay, but I just… can't."

"Thank you." Molly's voice sounded almost as strained as the girl's did.

"We understand, of course," said Arthur gently. "I was quite fond of your parents—"

Severus winced inwardly, waiting for the breakdown that would surely follow. Sure enough, her lips started to tremble, and her eyes to fill with tears. He sighed and stood up, doing his best to head off the inevitable at the pass.

"If you will excuse us, Molly and Arthur, I believe it is time that I escort Miss Granger back to the school. She has had an extremely trying few days, and as you so aptly pointed out, Molly, she needs to sleep." He circled the table and took her firmly by the arm, telling himself that he was doing it to avoid a complete meltdown on her part, rather than out of the inconvenient, helpless protectiveness that seemed to rise in him every time she began to cry. "Dinner was quite pleasant, Molly. Thank you."

"Happy Christmas," said Arthur feebly as Severus led her through the kitchen and to the door. As soon as they were outside, he removed a neatly folded handkerchief from one pocket and extended it to her.

"When you have stopped crying, we will return to the school, Miss Granger."

She wiped her eyes and re-folded the handkerchief, returning it to him shakily. They Apparated back to Hogsmeade and began the walk back to the school immediately. Glancing over to make sure that she was keeping up, he saw that she was still incredibly white, and shaking badly now.

"You are cold, Miss Granger." He stopped walking. "Take my cloak."

"No."

"Don't be silly," he snapped. "You are obviously freezing. I am not."

"I'm not either."

"Miss Granger, if you require a moment to stop and cast a warming charm, you need only to tell me. I have no interest in treating you for exposure after everything else—"

"I'm _not _cold!" she said, annoyed. She was still shaking. He stared at her face, eerily lit by wandlight. Something felt dreadfully wrong to him, but he could not identify what it was. At a loss, he simply turned and continued to the castle. If she wanted to be stubborn, it was her prerogative. He was not going to play the game and continue to push her until she accepted his help.

Once they were within the light and warm of the Entrance Hall, though, he did turn and appraise her more carefully. She looked horrible, and he worried that she might faint.

"Miss Granger," he said, "you will accompany me to the Headmistress' office."

She gave a tired little sigh but did not object. Re-settling her knapsack on her shoulder, she followed dutifully behind him. He went slowly on the stairs, partly from his own exhaustion and partly to allow her to keep up.

As soon as the office door was securely closed behind them, he turned around and bore down on her. "What is wrong, Miss Granger?" he said icily, with the full intention of cowing her into a confession. He was tired of this guesswork. Something was wrong, he knew, and he had a _right_ to know what it was.

She looked around at the scores of portraits that lined the walls, her eyes moving restlessly over the room, although they never looked directly at his face.

"I… saw something," she whispered, so softly that he had to bend down to hear it. She was trembling more violently than ever, and he found himself taking her arm again and leading her (rather forcefully) to a chair.

"What did you see?" He frowned, struck by an uneasy fear that she'd caught some random, repulsive flash of him and been disgusted and frightened by it.

"P-Percy," she gasped, grabbing at his arm desperately when he began to draw it away from her.

"What?" he said, stupidly.

She moaned, closing her eyes and digging her fingers into his arm. "The Dark Mark," she said in a terrified voice. "On his—his arm, when I was cleaning up the tea."

Severus stopped breathing. He heard the quiet click that his teeth made as he snapped his jaw shut. She shook her head, whispering, "I… we speculated… but…"

Her lips were quite dry, and he looked for a pitcher of water, but there was none.

"_Aguamenti_," he said, picking up one of Minerva's whiskey glasses and pointing his wand at it. When it was full, he gave it to her. She accepted it, but made no move to drink.

"All that time," she said, sloshing water into her lap as her hand shook. "I hoped it was only the falling-out with his family, but of course there would have to be something worse, didn't there?" She gave a shrill, hysterical laugh.

"Miss Granger—"

"Do you think they know? Do they _know_? Have they been hiding him all this time when he should have been in Azkaban?"

"Are you sure that you saw—"

"I'm sure." Her voice dropped to a whisper again. "I know what the Dark Mark looks like."

"Miss Granger, if what you say is true, and if the Weasleys _are_ aware of it, I would remind you that some Death Eaters do… reform."

He expected her to look comforted, or at least abashed, but instead she looked more upset than ever. "Who?" she cried desperately, her voice rising. "Who besides you, Professor Snape? You're the only one!"

He straightened up, taken rather aback. "Draco Malfoy—" he began doubtfully, knowing as he said it that it was a flimsy example at best.

"Lies!" she said, dropping the glass of water and wringing her hands. Severus watched her, unsure of what to do or say. "He's no more reformed than his father was. He's never changed, it's all just the same as it was, only now they're dead and he can't even threaten them anymore. I kept it a secret for him, I _helped_ him, but it was all for nothing!"

He did his best to follow her incomprehensible babbling. What in Merlin's name was she talking about?

"He doesn't deserve to be here, he's just going to do it again and again, and it's all my fault. Oh God… how could I have been so _weak_? He's right. He's right, he's always been right. I should have seen it. I should have known. I'm no better than they are." She was crying again now, her tear ducts apparently as bottomless as Ron Weasley's stomach.

"Miss Granger," he said sternly, "compose yourself."

But she didn't. She only gasped and buried her face in her hands. "It's all lies," she sobbed, "just lies."

He seized her wrist and pulled her hand down from her face, scowling at her. If he could not use words to get her to stop and talk sense, he would have to use intimidation. "You _will_ stop these hysterics, Miss Granger," he growled. "I will accept nothing else."

She whimpered softly, obviously wrestling to control her tears. "I'm… ohh, I think I'm going to be sick."

That, at least, he didn't blame her for. The thought of Percy Weasley having joined the Death Eaters turned his stomach entirely, especially since the boy had been attending Order meetings and listening to Merlin only knew what secrets.

"Miss Granger," he said yet again, more gently this time. "I do not know whether Arthur and Molly are aware of this, but—"

"Of course they don't know!" she said hurriedly, with a rather dismissive wave of her hand. "I've never told them! I've never told anyone."

He suddenly felt quite out of his depth. Hadn't they been talking about Percy Weasley? And hadn't she only just discovered his dubious history less than an hour ago?

"Never told anyone what, Miss Granger?"

"About Draco, of course!"

A moment later, she froze so completely that even her uncontrollable shaking stopped. A horrified look slowly overtook her face as she realized what she'd said. The room was silent, except for a few too-loud snores from some of the non-Slytherin portraits.

A new sick feeling made his stomach turn over yet again. He had to ask her, although he had a dreadful fear of what the answer might be.

"Miss—" he started, and then stopped himself. Her emotional state and his fears of what he might be about to hear from her demanded a kinder address, however difficult he might find it.

"Hermione," he began again, rather hesitantly. Her eyes moved briefly in his direction, and then away again. "Did Draco… assault you, in some way?"

The look on her face answered him before she spoke, and he clenched his fists. A sudden, intense rage roared to life in his chest. He was going to kill Draco, the arrogant little fool. Not bothering to wait for her answer, he dropped to a crouch so that he was at eye level with her, his hand still curled tightly around her wrist. He didn't notice.

"When did this happen?" he said insistently.

Her lip had split, he saw, and a drop of blood was welling out of the tear in her skin. She mumbled something, but he couldn't hear it, even from a mere few centimeters away.

"Hermione," he said, as kindly as he could, letting go of her wrist. It pained him to use her first name, and he was sure he heard an offended sniff from Phineas Nigellus each time he did, but it seemed to help her. The color in her cheeks deepened, and her lower lip began to quiver again, though she was obviously making a great effort to control it.

"Fifth year," she repeated, her voice still so soft that he almost couldn't hear it. He blinked slowly. Fifth year. More than two years ago, and she'd never told anyone? He'd thought that if anything, it had been on the last Hogsmeade weekend. He knew that something had passed between them then, but he'd assumed that it was the first time, that Draco's obvious interest in her was a new thing.

What a fool he was.

He thought back as best he could. It had been an awful year. He hated Dolores Umbridge with a passion second only to his hatred for Damien Wilkes and the Dark Lord. As they were both dead, she'd rather risen in status on that list of late. She was an unforgivable, conniving toad of a woman, and he'd spent so much time attempting to thwart her and keep her from utterly overrunning the school that he hadn't been able to spend anywhere near as much time overseeing his students as he liked.

He didn't remember Draco experiencing any sort of serious and unexplained injury at the time, however, and he could not imagine that the fiery little Gryffindor in front of him would let such an offense go unpunished.

"What…" he began awkwardly, pausing immediately after he said it to gather his thoughts. "What transpired between you? I do not remember Draco suffering any significant injuries in that year."

"He didn't," she said quietly.

"Miss G—Hermione—"

"I tried to fight him off, I swear I did," she said miserably. "But the full body-bind caught me by surprise… I didn't… I couldn't… I couldn't _do_ anything…"

He stood up quickly, turning his back on her and walking away. He stole a glance at Dumbledore's portrait, wishing that he could ask for advice on how to handle such a matter. Dumbledore was, like the other portraits, pretending to be asleep, but behind the glinting spectacles (how _had _the painter managed to enchant those painted spectacles to reflect real light?) Severus caught a glimpse of slightly-opened eyes. Dumbledore's shoulders rose and fell in an inaudible sigh.

"I didn't want to, I promise I didn't want to!" She was still talking frantically. He could not turn around and look at her. He couldn't look at her, because if he looked at her, if he saw that broken look in her eyes one more time, he was going to abandon her to the tender mercies of the dead headmasters of Hogwarts while he headed to the dungeons to kill Draco Malfoy.

He listened miserably to the wretched cries that choked her in the middle of her semi-coherent explanations. "I'm sorry," she moaned, her voice hitching breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I swear I'm sorry, I didn't want to. He made me do it. I'm so sorry."

He was going to _kill_ Draco.

"Do not apologize, Miss Granger," he forced himself to say, although he still could not turn around. "You did nothing wrong."

"Y-you're just saying that. I kn-know it's a lie. You can't even look at me because I'm so disgusting," she sobbed. "I'm just a mudblood whore, and now you know the truth about me, and… and… and you can't even look at me anymore!" At that, she began to cry so hard that she could no longer speak.

Ahh, Merlin. How had this task fallen to him? He groaned, closing his eyes for a moment, and then forcing himself to turn around.

"You will not use a phrase like that again in my presence, Miss Granger," he said softly. "I believe you are already aware of my opinions on the use of… _that_ word. Open your eyes, girl. I am looking at you. You have done nothing wrong."

She was a pathetic, unlovely sight. Tears and mucous covered her face, and her hair had become wild and unruly yet again. Her cheeks and nose were terribly blotchy, and she shook violently under the force of her grief and shame. He wanted to touch her, if only to siphon off a little of the suffering that seemed to threaten to tear her apart at the seams.

Seams…

A terrible thought came to him. "Hermione," he said gently, managing this time to successfully quell his sense of impropriety over using her name, "The scars on your stomach…"

That seemed to surprise her out of her tears. She recoiled and looked up at him. The whites of her eyes had gone pink, and the delicate boundaries of her eyelids were intensely red. "He… said…" she gasped, her breath still coming unevenly.

There was a long pause. She opened her mouth a few times, but each time she attempted to speak, her eyes filled once more with tears and she closed it again. "You need not tell me what he said, if it is too… uncomfortable for you," he said, hoping it sounded as gentle as he desired.

"Y-you're just being n-nice," she hiccoughed. He snorted, though he attempted to keep the noise quiet enough that she wouldn't hear it.

"The occasion calls for it, I think," he said, fumbling in his pocket for his handkerchief once again and extending it to her. She took it and pressed it to her eyes, obscuring him from her view.

"You told me about W-Wilkes," she said in a very sniffly voice.

"I was… willing to do that. It was many, many years ago. I have had time to come to terms with it. You—"

"You have a right to know." He could hear the quaver in the words, but she seemed determined. _Gryffindor bravery strikes again_, he thought unhappily. She _would_ insist on telling him all, once she'd told him some. For once, though, he couldn't force himself to deride that quality in her that forced her to push through her grief and reveal her deepest secrets to him, a man who she feared and probably loathed entirely. She simply believed it was the right thing to do, and she would do it, no matter what it took.

"It… if you were right in what you told me before, it… affects you. So you should know w-what happened. He…" she drew a breath, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes again. "He paralyzed me. And then he—"

Severus did not want to hear, but she wanted to tell him, and so he had no choice. He knew her well enough by now, knew enough of what had happened to her, that he knew she might crumple completely under the weight of it if he told her to stop.

She'd only faltered for a moment this time, seeming to gain an odd, determined sort of strength as she told the story. "He cut me. Said the blood made it easier for him to… to… do it."

"Merlin's beard, girl," he murmured, horrified. "What did you tell Madame Pomfrey?"

"I didn't." There was a crimson stain on the handkerchief; she'd cried so hard that she'd given herself a nosebleed. He approached her cautiously and removed the handkerchief from her hand, pointing his wand at it.

"_Tergeo_," he said quietly, and then handed it back to her. "Why did you not visit Madame Pomfrey?"

She was hunched over in the chair, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, shielding herself. "He said if I told anyone, he'd have his father kill my parents."

Severus wondered whether he'd face any serious retribution if he traveled to Azkaban and murdered Lucius. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

"I… I went to the Room of Requirement. It gave me bandages and some sort of healing salve. I don't know what it was. It kept them from bleeding too badly, though."

"And you have told—"

"No one," she said tensely.

"Not even Potter and Weasley?"

She made a short, loud noise that might have been a laugh. "Tell Ron and Harry that I lost my precious maidenhead to Draco Malfoy?"

He frowned quietly. "Surely they would have understood—"

"I don't think so. Ron only just f-found out I'm not a… a virgin. We… he called me a mudblood whore. He called me the same thing Draco did. I left. I couldn't explain to him, not after that. He wouldn't believe me…"

Terrible memories were tugging at his heart. Was this what Lily had been, after he'd attacked her heart so viciously that day? At the very least, Miss Granger and Weasley had been close. They'd grown up together, been friends since first year, and she and Lily were so very similar.

"That's why you went to Australia?"

She nodded.

"Come, Miss Granger. I am taking you to the hospital wing." He held out his hand to her, resisting with all of his will the impulse to gather her into his arms and carry her there himself.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I worked an 11-hour graveyard shift last night and wrote almost this whole chapter out longhand. I'm sure many of you will be happy that he's finally been told.

A number of people have had questions about a few things in the last couple of reviews. Rather than address all of those here, I'd like to point you to my livejournal, where I typically write an extended commentary on each chapter.. http:// zeegrindylows . livejournal .com

Very many thanks to reviewers, idea-bouncers, and friends.


	38. Burnt to the Core

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

**WARNING**: This chapter contains a short segment that might disturb people who are uncomfortable with reading about rape and its associated psychological and physical trauma. As a result of the violence in this and the previous chapters, the rating of this story has been raised from T to M.

* * *

**Chapter 38: Burnt to the Core**

* * *

Severus opened the doors to the Hospital Wing and allowed Miss Granger to enter in front of him. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, the sleeves of her mother's jumper so long that they covered her hands up completely. He watched her curiously. She looked oddly childlike in that overlarge thing, but she carried herself like a woman, and after all that had passed in the last week, he knew he would never be able to think of her as a child again, no matter what she wore. 

They seemed to have caught Poppy in a rare moment of recreation, for she was sitting at one end of the empty room with her feet up and a book in her hand. A tea tray set with a Christmas-themed tea set was floating next to her, bobbing gently up and down.

She looked up as Miss Granger's footsteps echoed off the stone floor, and in a matter of seconds, the book and tea tray had disappeared and she was hurrying towards them.

"Severus! Miss Granger!" she said, trotting towards them anxiously. "Is all well? Miss Granger, the Headmistress told me you might be in danger." She shook her head and gave Severus a dirty look, as though she held him personally responsible for it. "What's the trouble?"

The girl said nothing, merely hugging herself a little more tightly and looking to one side.

"Miss Granger," said Severus gravely, "is in need of a Calming Draught, Poppy. Furthermore, she has suffered significant injuries at the hands of Damien Wilkes. Although I have healed the worst of them with a few weak potions, there are still some lingering aftereffects that I believe will require treatment."

"Damien Wilkes?" said Poppy slowly. "Don't be ridiculous, Severus, Damien Wilkes is dead."

He inclined his head. "Indeed he is, Poppy." He waited just long enough for her confusion to show on her face before he added, "Now."

"Well," said Poppy, sniffing. "I don't know how it could have happened, but you ought to have kept a better eye on her, Severus. I don't approve of students rushing about and getting themselves into such dangerous situations. Death Eaters indeed."

"Indeed," he echoed. "One would wish, at least, that Miss Granger was of age."

Poppy gave him a dirty look, although she was already bustling off towards her store of potions.

"Come along, dear," she called over her shoulder, "and we'll have a look at you. Severus, thank you for escorting her up here. You may as well go."

He ought to have turned and gone. He ought to have simply walked away. He ought to have.

He didn't.

"I believe… I should stay. Minerva will require a report on her condition."

"I can report on her condition myself, when she gets back."

"It is my impression that she may remain in Australia until the end of the Christmas holiday, and I think she would prefer to be apprised of Miss Granger's situation before that time."

Miss Granger looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn't protest. She seemed to have withdrawn into herself in a way that he didn't like at all.

"Very well, Severus," snapped Poppy, defeated. "But please refrain from scowling at my patient in that unpleasant manner. Find somewhere unobtrusive to sit, and I'll let you know her status when I've finished examining her."

"As you wish, Poppy." He bowed his head slightly and settled himself into the chair that she had so recently vacated. It was comfortable. Waiting until she was busy with leading Miss Granger to a bed, he moved it closer to them, enough that he could hear at least snatches of their conversation.

0 0 0

This Calming Draught was the same as the one Professor Snape had given to her in Australia, and tasted of tea and sugar. She felt quite sure that it had been developed by a Briton.

"Now then," said Madame Pomfrey as Hermione sat down on the edge of one of the beds. "What's happened?"

Hermione rubbed absently at her left arm. It felt oddly dirty.

"Wilkes," she said bleakly. Madame Pomfrey said nothing, but merely watched her until she could continue.

"He killed my parents. I tried to stop him, but I couldn't; he petrified me. I had a lot of bruises, but Professor Snape took care of most of those." She glanced over at him hesitantly. He was staring at the wall, looking utterly bored. "I think some of my ribs might be cracked, and he—he used the Cruciatus curse on me several times." She shuddered.

"I see," said Madame Pomfrey, sounding displeased. "Well, I've had a lot of experience in treating the aftereffects of Cruciatus of late, lucky for you. Lie down, I'm going to fetch you another potion."

Hermione obeyed, settling down on her side and curling up, staring listlessly in front of her. Professor Snape knew her secret. The thought made her feel sick. He'd seen the scars. Worse yet, he knew where they had come from. He might as well have seen her naked.

Madame Pomfrey returned with a small bottle. It was filled with a thick, gray potion that Hermione accepted without a word. She drank it without sitting up, and almost immediately she noticed its effects. Her muscles and joints became a little less stiff, and the tingling ache that had seemed to linger in her bones dissipated, if only a little.

"It will take time," said the matron sympathetically. "And several more doses, I'd imagine. Now then, you can just lie still, and I'm going to do a few diagnostic spells."

Hermione obeyed, not moving so much as an eyelid as Madame Pomfrey waved her wand, muttering under her breath. She could feel the flutter of magic as it moved over her, and she was vaguely aware that little puffs of golden smoke were floating up from her body in different places, turning themselves into odd runes and then evaporating.

"Hermione," said Madame Pomfrey sharply. "Lift up your shirt."

She blinked, looking over at Professor Snape uncomfortably. "What?"

"Your _shirt_, girl. Let me see your stomach."

Professor Snape was not looking in her direction. "I—I'd rather not."

Madame Pomfrey looked over her shoulder, then briskly pulled a curtain closed around the bed. "There we are, Miss Granger. Rest assured, even on the off chance that Professor Snape did wish to see you in any state of undress, it shall not happen."

Reluctantly, she lifted her shirt a few inches. Madame Pomfrey made a soft noise of dismay as the ragged white scars came into her view.

"When did that happen?"

Hermione looked away, feeling terribly uncomfortable under Madame Pomfrey's blatant scrutiny. Nobody had ever seen those scars before, except for Crookshanks… and Professor Snape. She shuddered slightly at the memory of his fingertip moving down the track of one of them. Knowing the reason for the jolt of emotion that had run through at his touch did very little to mitigate the frightening intensity and unfamiliarity of it.

"Miss Granger," said Madame Pomfrey in a tone that sounded, to Hermione's ears, terribly accusing, "these aren't new scars."

"No," she said, her eyes beginning to sting again. Merlin, was she _ever _going to be able to stop crying?"

The matron frowned, moving her wand over them slowly. "I don't remember seeing these before."

"No," she said again, almost whispering this time.

Madame Pomfrey sighed heavily and drew up a chair to the edge of the bed, sinking into it heavily. "I suggest, Miss Granger, that you tell me when this happened and who did it."

She tried to look unaware. "This week. It was Damien Wilkes… Professor Snape told you that."

Madame Pomfrey's lips tightened into a thin line. "Miss Granger, you are nowhere near good enough at being disingenuous to fool me. You know exactly what I was asking about. Your other injuries I can treat easily. I am not asking about those."

Hermione pulled her shirt down. "I don't want to talk about it."

"That's obvious. You don't seem to have had these scars treated."

"No."

"Well, it's too late now. They're always going to be there. I need to know, however, how long ago it happened and who did it."

She didn't look at her. What made it so difficult to tell the truth? Was it only that she'd been hiding it for so long? Draco couldn't hurt her anymore. If he tried to attack her, she'd proved that she could defend herself. The memory of casting the Cruciatus curse on him in the alley in Hogsmeade hovered constantly with her, like a splinter she couldn't quite remove. And now she'd killed Damien Wilkes, an experienced Death Eater. Her parents were dead. Draco couldn't hurt them either.

She'd done a good enough job of that on her own.

And yet she had to struggle to open her mouth, Gryffindor bravery notwithstanding. Madame Pomfrey had lapsed into silence, apparently willing to wait a bit for her to find the courage to discuss something she'd kept hidden away so deeply for so long.

Professor Snape knew. She felt relatively sure she could trust Madame Pomfrey with her secrets—couldn't she? Hermione had no doubt, especially after the previous year, that she wouldn't be the first with a story like this, even if the perpetrator was different.

She took a breath.

"Draco Malfoy."

She meant to say it boldly. Bravely. As if it didn't bother her anymore. As if she'd come to terms with it. Instead, it came out in a soft, little-girlish voice that cracked halfway through his surname. She heard Madame Pomfrey gasp, although she smothered the noise almost immediately.

"When?" Her voice was sharp now, and Hermione winced. At least she wasn't pursuing the matter of who did it—not yet, at any rate.

"Fifth year," she muttered, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks.

"You didn't come see me."

"No."

"Why not?"

Hermione looked away again, and Madame Pomfrey sighed. "I suppose I know why not. Did you seek _any_ medical attention?"

"I had a salve for the cuts."

"That's all?"

She nodded, rolling on to her side again and drawing her knees up slightly.

"Miss Granger," said Madame Pomfrey very gently. "That was a very understandable reaction, but a very foolish course of action. These things are… they can cause serious, long-term damage."

Her lip was sore. It had split. When had that happened? She didn't remember, but it hurt, and she touched her tongue to it. Now that the truth was out, she'd gone back to feeling detached and strange. Her secret had been exposed. Her soul had been exposed. Now that she was naked anyway, there was no point in caring enough to hide any longer.

"I need to examine you, Miss Granger."

That broke through her numbness enough to bring back the hot sensation of blood rushing to her face.

"I'd… rather not, please."

"I know you'd rather not. However, avoiding the situation will do nothing to help you, as you ought to have realized at this point. Now then," she said briskly, "I warn you, Miss Granger, that there is no way for me to make this completely comfortable for you. I will do my best, but you must expect that it will be an emotional experience."

"I don't want to."

She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. "I know you don't, my dear, but it is a necessity. You will survive it, as you have survived everything else, and you will come out better on the other side for it. The sooner we get it finished, the sooner you can forget that it had to happen."

"Can't I—can you give me a potion, or something?"

Madame Pomfrey gave her a sad, sympathetic smile. "You've already had a Calming Draught, my dear. I can't give you another just yet."

"I'm not ready," she whispered, reaching one hand up and gripping her pillow tightly, as though it had some power in it to help her.

Madame Pomfrey had stood up, and was doing something with the curtain around the bed, apparently fastening it closed. When Hermione spoke, she lowered her hands slowly and turned around again.

"You never will be, Miss Granger," she said gently. Hermione closed her eyes. Knowing it was true didn't help.

0 0 0

When the curtain closed and Severus was shut out, he felt torn between relief and disappointment. He was strangely fascinated with her, he found. He didn't like it. He was beginning to think, however, that there might be nothing he could do about it. Everything he learned about her seemed to do away with some misconception.

If there was any girl in his mind who could keep a secret, even one like that, from Potter and Weasley for two years, it would not have been Hermione Granger.

He wished that he'd questioned Potter more thoroughly about his mental link to the Dark Lord. He stared at the curtain, wondering what was happening behind it. He wished he'd been better prepared to deal with her injuries. He'd brought an anti-Cruciatus potion, but it was a weak one, and she'd been hurt in so many other ways as well.

He suddenly wanted to get up and leave, but he'd said he would stay until the end, and so of course he had no choice but to do so. He looked out the window, into the dark grounds of the school, and waited.

0 0 0

"—On your back. Yes, that's right, now move to the very edge of the bed, if you would. I'm sorry, it's not as comfortable as it could be, I know."

Hermione moved obediently, if unhappily, to the edge of the bed, feeling horribly exposed beneath the sheet that Madame Pomfrey had draped over her naked legs. She'd kept up a stream of rather inane comments, describing everything she was doing. Hermione didn't know if she found it comforting, or embarrassing.

The bed shook slightly and there was a clanking of metal that sounded rather ominous to her ears. She'd made it this long without an examination like this one. She wondered in retrospect how she'd done that. She'd been too young to really need one, in fifth year, and after that she simply hadn't been willing to go.

"All right, Miss Granger, I'm going to lift up your foot now and move it." Warm hands cupped her ankle and guided her foot onto something. It felt hard, and she supposed it was made of metal, although it was warm enough not to be uncomfortable. It must have been charmed.

"And now the other one," said Madame Pomfrey, repeating the process. Hermione hadn't known it was possible to feel even more exposed than she already did, but apparently it was. She stared at the ceiling. It didn't help. She tried closing her eyes. That didn't help either, so with a sigh, she opened them again. Perhaps she could find something to look at that would distract her.

A chair scraped over the stone floor. "Now, I'd like you to take a few deep breaths, and relax as much as you can. I'm afraid you won't like this, but I'll do my best to make it as comfortable for you as possible."

She could sense the movement of Madame Pomfrey's body as the matron settled herself into the chair. Hermione imagined her adjusting her spectacles in preparation for peering into the depths of her body, and then immediately wished that she hadn't. She willed herself to breathe deeply, as she'd been told, but didn't really succeed. Her heart was pounding now, and adrenaline was making her hands tremble almost uncontrollably.

"I'm going to lift the sheet now, Miss Granger," said Madame Pomfrey, her voice low and soothing and matter-of-fact. Hermione felt cool air hit her skin as Madame Pomfrey carefully folded the sheet back, and then she realized fully that she had no clothes on, that the matron's eyes were seeing what nobody but Draco Malfoy had seen since she'd stopped wearing nappies.

But it was too late to run away, too late to ask her to stop. Hermione gritted her teeth and dug her fingernails into the mattress, willing herself to bear it. She could run away later.

"All right, you're going to feel a slightly odd sensation," said the matron. Hermione caught the whisper of a spell, and then a tingling warmth and wetness between her legs. It wasn't pleasant, and the tingling went away almost immediately, leaving only a sense of being rather slippery. She shuddered. Perhaps it _would _be better to close her eyes, only then she would be left with nothing but blackness and sensations that she'd prefer to ignore. She kept them open.

"I'm going to put my hand on the inside of your thigh now," said Madame Pomfrey in a soothing voice. Hermione thought frantically that it wasn't terribly fair of her to use such a comforting tone when she was saying things like that. She could feel a hand moving up her leg and she clenched her jaw, staring up at the ceiling.

"Steady now, Miss Granger," she murmured comfortingly. "I know this is difficult. Now, I'm not going to do anything else until you've had a moment to relax."

"I—" Hermione began, but there was nothing to say. Madame Pomfrey seemed to be aware that there was no way she was going to relax, but it seemed important that she keep up the pretense that it was possible. Hermione felt that she ought to play along.

"Ready, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed and then nodded. It took her a moment to remember that Madame Pomfrey probably couldn't see her over the sheet that still stretched across her knees. "Yes," she murmured.

"Very well," said Madame Pomfrey in her kindest voice. Hermione held her breath, her heart pounding as she felt Madame Pomfrey's hand leave her thigh. There was a blessed moment in which there was nothing touching her at all, and then Madame Pomfrey said "All right, Miss Granger, I'm going to put one hand on your abdomen here—" her palm pressed down gently, just above Hermione's pelvis "—and begin the examination."

Two fingers moved between her legs and—oh _God_. Hermione wanted to scream. She wanted to get up and run. But she couldn't. There was a hand holding her down on the bed while its mate searched her body for injuries. She bit her tongue, forcing herself with every last ounce of her strength not to cry out.

And then it didn't matter, because she wasn't there anymore, and she couldn't run away even if she _was _afraid enough to try.

0 0 0

Severus carefully avoided looking at the curtain. He assumed there was some sort of silencing charm cast, as he could hear not even the faintest murmur from the bed. He had no interest in imagining what Poppy might be doing. The treatments of Miss Granger's _recent _injuries did not require that level of privacy.

Her older injuries, however, did.

He frowned thoughtfully. He had no idea what Poppy might be able to do with them. There were no potions specifically to treat the aftermath of rape, but Severus had seen enough to know that there had to _be_ some sort of aftermath. Some of the women that Lucius had taken had been left so mangled that Severus could not even remember it without feeling ill.

He was still staring out the window, although he could see almost nothing. There was a glare from the interior lights, and he had to squint in order to see past them.

_He was walking the hallways late at night, past the Room of Requirement, looking furtively around to be sure that nobody was about. _

Severus' head turned toward the curtain so quickly that it caused a twinge of pain in his neck. Of all the times to be sucked into her mind, did it have to be _now_?

_He—no, _she_—stopped short, hearing a footstep behind her. Before she could get her wand out, there were hands on her, one around her throat and one around her mouth._

"_Scream and you're dead," purred Draco Malfoy into his—_her_, damn it!—ear._

He fumbled for the self-control that had always been at his command before. Her thoughts pulled at him. A part of him wanted to embrace them, wanted to fall into her mind and explore it, see through her eyes. Another part was horrified at the very thought. It was an invasion of her privacy. It was not something he wished to know about. What the hell was Poppy doing to her, to make her remember such things?

_A wand in her side, a near-silent scuffle as Draco dragged her into an empty classroom and locked the door. He set the wards with one hand, keeping the other around her mouth. And then he jabbed the wand into her flesh and snarled, "_Petrificus Totalus_!"_

Severus fought it. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to know. But her terror and disgust were infectious, and there was no calm place in his mind to run to, no barrier to put up against this onslaught of fear.

_Nothing but sensation and disconnected observations. The smoothness of the stone floor. The smell of his breath as it came to her through the impenetrable darkness. The feral digging of his teeth into her shoulder. His loud, animalistic grunting. And then pain, pain, nothing but pain, as a blade dug into flesh and dragged long, vertical lines from navel to hipbone and blood began to spill from the wounds._

Severus tried to think about the window. He tried to think about anything, anything but this, but it was dragging him in inexorably and he could find no thought powerful enough to pit against it.

"_That makes it easier," panted Draco, pawing at the blood and smearing it downwards, and there was no doubt what he meant by it, what its purpose was. Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry, willing it to be over so that she could crawl away and die. _

"_Dirty… mudblood… whore…"_

Severus, trapped between his own mind and hers, felt the sensation of his real fingernails breaking the skin of his real palms. Dimly, behind the horrible things he was seeing in his mind, he was aware of the Hospital Wing, aware of the curtain behind which Miss Granger was surely reliving this as well.

_He lit his wand. _

_He was covered with blood. So was she. It seemed to be everywhere, drenching her. Draco waved his wand at her stomach and the wounds closed themselves with a painful tugging sensation._

"_Can't have you dying, Granger," he said casually, turning his wand on himself and vanishing the bloody mess that covered his hips. "Someone might notice."_

_She lay there for an eternity, her blood congealing on her body and slowly turning black and crusty. Gray light finally began to shine through one of the windows. She had to get up. She had to._

"_You have to get up," she said aloud. And she did, slowly, gingerly, until she was sitting upright, and then she got her wand out and began the slow process of cleaning herself up. The wounds were only superficially healed, and the movement broke them open again. She moaned in pain._

_But she carried on. When she was finally finished, she left the room, heading for the Great Hall to eat breakfast, and pretend that it had never happened._

Severus wrenched himself away, feeling sick. He was angry with himself for watching, for not working harder to close himself off to that knowledge.

But that was nothing compared to his fury with Draco. He had to tell Minerva. There was no way he was allowing the boy to remain at Hogwarts for another day. It would be difficult enough to let him live at all, after this.

0 0 0

It was over. Madame Pomfrey gently closed her legs for her and draped her with the sheet again. She barely noticed. Horrible memories had overtaken her and she couldn't bear it. She started to cry.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Granger," whispered Madame Pomfrey as Hermione's body began to tremble from the overdose of adrenaline. "I'm so, so sorry. We should have protected you better. We should have protected all of you."

The matron's voice broke. Hermione felt the bed shift as she sat down beside her, and then warm, strong arms were lifting her up into a sitting position and gathering her in. Madame Pomfrey, the woman who had watched over her and cared for her since she was eleven years old, held her tightly and rocked her back and forth on the bed.

Hermione felt the older woman's tears as they fell onto her forehead.

0 0 0

"It's not as bleak as it could be, Severus," said Poppy in a low voice. Miss Granger lay sleeping, a half-empty bottle of Dreamless Sleep sitting on the table beside her. "I've sedated her, for the time being, and dosed her with several healing potions. She's been horribly traumatized, and not just by this past week, I'm afraid. There are some old injuries that will need tending, although thankfully they aren't anything near as severe as they could be, given--"

"Old injuries?" Severus raised one eyebrow. Poppy frowned.

"I'm happy to discuss the specifics with Minerva, Severus, but for the sake of the girl's privacy—"

"She has told me," he said very softy, "of what transpired during her fifth year."

Poppy's eyebrows disappeared under the edge of her cap. "She told _you_?" Her disbelief and shock were evident. Severus smiled grimly.

"Ah, yes. I should have informed you, Poppy. The… speculations as to the nature of my relationship with Miss Granger were, most unfortunately, correct."

He could see his reflection in her eyes.

"I _assumed_," she said rather stiffly, "that if your fears were proved to be true, you would have come and told me."

"I told only Minerva and Albus, Poppy. There was no reason to tell you before now." He shrugged, his eyes wandering over her shoulder to look at Miss Granger again. She was still sleeping peacefully, the unpleasant lines smoothed from her face. To look at her now, one would never guess what had happened to her. He looked back at Poppy, who shrank from him a little.

"Don't look so furious with me, Severus," she snapped defensively. "Of all people, I think I have a right to know, as it concerns two charges of mine, at least one of whom is in the habit of spending a great deal of time here. Did it never occur to you that it might be medically relevant?"

"I hope it has not escaped your attention that this is the first time since the Battle that either of us have needed to trespass on your… hospitality," he said dryly.

"Don't you take that tone with me, Severus Snape. I'm too old and I've seen you naked far too many times to put up with that sort of thing from you."

Severus blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

A gleam came into her eye and she gave him a smirk worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself. "Did you think that I got you into hospital gowns by means of _magic_ all of those times that you came staggering in here, half-dead in the middle of the night? I'm sorry to disillusion you, my dear, but that is one task that even mediwitches still do in the Muggle way."

He assumed the haughtiest and most dignified expression he was capable of. No need to give Poppy any confirmation of the inward mortification she no doubt suspected he was suffering from.

"If that is all, Poppy, I must excuse myself. There is a… discussion that I must have with our young Mr. Malfoy." He felt the simmering fury in his chest flare up again until it took actual effort to stay even long enough to excuse himself before he went to seek the boy out and Cruciate him within an inch of his life.

"Ah," said Poppy sadly. "I'm afraid it's not quite all yet, Severus."

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at her. His hair fell around his face, causing a sort of tunnel-vision. He could see nothing but her. It really was helpful, he felt. It kept him from getting distracted by things like the prone form of Miss Granger as she lay motionless on the bed.

"You'd better sit down."

He scowled. "I haven't time to _sit_, Poppy."

"You'll want to sit." She narrowed her eyes at him and angrily jabbed her wand into a corner. A chair zoomed towards them and placed itself directly behind him with a loud bang on the floor that seemed to have been purely for the sake of emphasizing her point.

He studied Poppy's face apprehensively. She'd suddenly become very grave, and was looking down at him with her brows knit worriedly together. He waited, knowing full well that it would do no good to ask until she'd made herself ready to speak. If her mouth was still shut, it was only because she wasn't entirely sure what to say just yet. He merely needed to have a little patience.

"I tell you this," she said slowly, "because if it is true that you are connected by the _Matrimonium Verus Mens—_"

"_Coniugium Mentium Verarum_," he corrected absently.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The proper name of the enchantment, I have been informed, is _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_."

"_Coniugium Mentium Verarum_, then. The reason I am going to tell you this, rather than withholding it for Minerva's ears only, is that if you really are connected by the enchantment, it may well have an effect on you."

Something fluttered uncomfortably in his chest, feeling as though his heart had fallen out of rhythm for a moment. "My position as Deputy Headmaster ought to have been enough to warrant—"

"No," she said shortly. "I would greatly have preferred to leave the information for Minerva alone until I had a chance to discuss it with the girl. Not only is Minerva the Headmistress, she was Miss Granger's Head of House up through her sixth year."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Miss Granger does not know what you are trying to avoid telling me?"

Poppy shifted her weight slightly, glancing at the same spot that Severus was working so assiduously to avoid seeing.

"I didn't discover it until after she was asleep," she admitted in a low voice, although they both knew that it would take near-Herculean effort to wake the girl. "I did a few more diagnostic charms—"

"And?" He frowned. He had no interest in these word games, this beating about the bush—not while Draco Malfoy was somewhere down in the dungeons, his neck as yet un-wrung.

"Severus, exactly what happened in Australia?"

He looked down and realized for the first time that he'd never put his wand away after they'd got back to the castle. It was still in his hand. He supposed it was some sort of unconscious desire to make up for the time he'd spent without it. Now he turned it in his hands, studying the smooth, polished wood.

"You know Damien Wilkes," he said eventually, looking up at her through his hair. She shuddered.

"How bad was it?"

"A bloodbath."

"She witnessed all of it?"

He looked down at his wand again, remembering the jet of light that had erupted from it under her touch and shredded Wilkes' body like so much unwanted paper. "She _caused_ some of it. If you are not going to tell me what this final discovery of yours is, I shall leave. I have a student to kill."

"That's not funny."

He bared his teeth angrily. "I was not joking."

"You have greater things to worry about, Severus—"

"A student of mine, my _godson_, has perpetrated a crime against another student which warrants a stay in Azkaban at the very _least_. I have no greater worries than the honor of my House and of my position as a godfather. I will not let this stand a moment longer than necessary." He was grinding the words out through his teeth, barely able to contain his rage.

"I _know_, Severus, but it's stood for two years. It can wait another few minutes before you run off without thinking things through. That isn't like you at all. Control yourself." Her voice was brisk and commanding, and he sank ungraciously lower in his seat, sticking his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle.

"Will you get on with it, Poppy?"

"You aren't going to like this."

"I had no idea that Ravenclaws were so cowardly."

She shot him a dirty look. "Don't you try and bait me."

"Don't keep wasting my time!" He stood up angrily, slapping his hand against the arm of the chair as he did. "The girl is safe with you, and I have other things to attend to!"

"There is some evidence that the psychological trauma has affected her… deeply."

The fire in his chest disappeared, leaving only a hollow coldness. For a moment, he feared he would never be able to breathe again, so completely did his lungs stop working. He wanted to ask, but questions refused to form themselves in his mind.

"I won't know for sure until she's awake and I can test her actual performance, but I believe that it may be affecting her ability to use magic, Severus." She looked searchingly at his face, until he had to turn away under her scrutiny, afraid of what she might be thinking. "Have you noticed any diminishment of her abilities?"

He thought before answering. He hadn't, had he? But when had she last used magic at all? He'd offered to let her stop and cast a warming charm on the way back to school, but she'd refused. There had been the _Muffliato_ charm on the plane—but no, he'd cast that himself. She'd reached for her wand when they went through security, but he'd stopped her, and before that, the last time he remembered seeing her with a wand in her hand was when she killed Wilkes.

"I don't know," he said flatly. "I haven't… seen."

Poppy's eyes narrowed. "You haven't noticed, you mean?"

"I haven't _seen_. She has not… performed any magic in my observation since she killed Damien Wilkes."

"_She_ killed Damien Wilkes?"

"I told you, Poppy—a bloodbath."

He gave up any pretense of not looking at her. She looked so innocent and helpless lying there that he wanted to do something to protect her. But if Poppy's supposition was true…

His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his forearm.

"I'm not entirely certain of it yet, Severus. It will need to be tested," said Poppy gently. "Go and see to Draco now, but if you notice any change in your own abilities, see me _immediately_."

He nodded and turned to leave, hardly aware of what he was doing.

"And Severus?" she called after him. He stopped, not turning back.

"Poppy?" he said evenly, amazed by the calm in his voice.

"Tell Minerva."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **So... yeah. Evil cliffhanger. I know. I'm sorry. Sort of. 

Endless thanks to the lovely ladies who have spent so much time helping me and encouraging me as I write. You all rock more than I can say. Seriously.

More soon. Promise. Reviewers, you are wonderful.

NOTE: I have gone back and edited out the reference to Umbridge, due to a re-thinking of the timeline for this rape and when it must have happened for it to be possible that Madame Pomfrey didn't see the injuries until now.


	39. Alas! Our Dried Voices

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 39: Alas! Our Dried Voices**

* * *

Severus left the hospital wing, but he didn't go to the dungeons. 

He went to the tree instead, his boots crunching rhythmically in the snow. The sky was clear, and an impossible expanse of stars spread out above him and lit his way, but he didn't see them. He finally put his wand away as he approached the tree, reaching for the familiar branch in the darkness and hoisting himself up.

His muscles still remembered how to do it, remembered so well that he could climb from branch to branch unhesitatingly, without even needing a light. It was cold, but it was a refreshing cold. He felt intensely awake, intensely aware of everything around him.

The interior was exactly as he'd left it. He cast a warming charm and lit his wand, looking around. Shadows stood out strangely against the wood of the tree. Severus walked forward and touched his hand to a crack in the bark, muttering an incantation under his breath. Slowly, the crack split open, wider and wider until it revealed a square, tidy compartment with a small bundle lying inside of it.

He took the bundle out and opened it, sorting through the contents until he found what he was looking for.

Then he sat down, and spent a very long time staring at the sorrowful, thin-faced woman who gazed out from the photograph, barely moving at all, except to blink sadly up at him now and again.

0 0 0

Clouds moved in overnight, and Hermione awoke on Christmas morning to the sight of a thin, gray drizzle running down the high windows of the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey was sitting beside her, and a small, neatly arranged pile of gifts sat on her beside table, wrapped in obscenely cheerful paper.

"I thought you'd be waking up soon," said Madame Pomfrey, with false cheerfulness. "Happy Christmas, dear. Fancy a bit of breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry, thanks."

The matron nodded. "I didn't think you would be. Lie still for another moment, I'm just going to do a quick diagnostic and see how you're doing, and then you can sit up. _Detego_."

Hermione watched the pulsing aura of light that immediately sprang up around her, the blue stained here and there with faint, bruise-like yellows and greens.

"Oh, that's _much _better," said Madame Pomfrey happily, tapping her wand on Hermione's stomach and making the blue glow vanish. "How are you feeling?"

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, wincing in anticipation of the sharp, aching pain that had plagued her for the last several days—but it was nearly nonexistent. "Better," she said, surprised.

"Excellent. Now then, just a few more tests, and you can settle in to open your Christmas gifts. If you'd take hold of your wand, please. Yes, that's right. Now, I wonder if you would cast a charm for me?"

Looking up from her wand, Hermione blinked. "What for, ma'am?"

Madame Pomfrey gave her a stern look. "Miss Granger, you are a student at this school, and I am its matron. Rest assured, I will not ask you to do things that are not diagnostically necessary. I merely wish to observe."

Hermione did not want to do magic. Aside from practicing for school, she'd never been one for using it when it was not strictly necessary, preferring to do things the Muggle way. Feeling inexplicably uneasy, she raised her wand and swished it lightly.

"_Orchideous_."

A single white anemone blossom burst from the tip of her wand and then floated gently through the air to the blanket, settling atop her thigh. She picked it up carefully, turning it in her hand and looking at it. That was wrong. The charm was meant to produce more than a single blossom. It ought to have produced an entire bouquet of flowers.

"Very good, Miss Granger," said Madame Pomfrey, making a note, "and perhaps another charm?"

Feeling that it wasn't very good at all, Hermione looked at the flower again and then carefully placed it back on the bed.

_Swish and flick_, she reminded herself, and then performed the wand motion. She'd long since been able to cast a levitation charm nonverbally, but this time the action didn't seem to come quite so easily. The flower twitched a bit. She did it again. Again, a twitch. Again, she lifted her arm.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" she said loudly. The blossom lifted a few inches into the air and then fell again, drifting gracefully to her knee. Hermione felt a rising sense of panic. Was her wand broken? Was _she_ broken? They were simple spells, things that she'd been able to do for years and years without even thinking about them, and yet she couldn't seem to make them work properly now.

"I see," said Madame Pomfrey thoughtfully. "I think that's all we need to do, Miss Granger. You may put your wand down."

"Madame Pomfrey?" she said, wishing her voice didn't sound quite so little-girlish and frightened.

"You will be all right, my dear. I must consult with Professor Snape. Open your Christmas gifts, if you'd like, or call a House-Elf for some breakfast. I'll be back in just a few minutes."

Hermione looked at her incredulously. Was she mad, thinking that she'd be able to do anything after something like that? But Madame Pomfrey was already leaving, heading for her office where, Hermione noticed as she looked through the open door, Professor Snape was now standing, apparently taking inventory of the Potions shelf.

She held her wand in both hands, trying not to listen to the murmur of voices that drifted from the office, rising and falling in something that sounded almost like an argument. Looking over to be sure they weren't watching her, she tried a few more spells. None of them worked properly, although all of them did _something_, however pathetically small it was. In desperation, she finally tried sending a simple shower of red sparks from her wand.

That, at least, worked as expected. The sparks scattered across the floor, glowing brightly for a few moments and then dissipating. Footsteps followed almost immediately afterwards, and within seconds, Professor Snape was at her side.

"Miss Granger, do you need anything?" he said quickly. For a moment she wondered what had brought him over, until she remembered the sparks. Of course, they'd think she meant to signal that she was in some sort of trouble and unable to call out. She wondered why he'd come instead of Madame Pomfrey.

"No, sir," she said, rather chagrined. "I was—experimenting."

"Ah," he said slowly. "Madame Pomfrey has asked me to discuss this… issue… with you."

"My wand isn't working properly," she whispered, unable to voice her deepest fear—that her wand was still working perfectly. His eyebrows contracted slightly. He looked almost sad. She didn't find that reassuring in the slightest, and she instinctively drew her arms a little closer to her body.

"It is not the power of your wand that has… diminished," he said carefully. Hermione heard the 'failed' that had almost slipped out before he amended it, and closed her eyes.

"It's me, isn't it?"

"It _is_ possible, sometimes, when a witch or wizard has endured great emotional stress…"

"For them to lose their magical powers." Her throat was beginning to constrict, and her hands to tingle. Was she hyperventilating? She felt seconds away from blind panic.

"It is almost always temporary, Miss Granger," he said gently. When had Professor Snape learned to be gentle? Had he always known how?

"_Almost_ always."

His voice grew soft in a way she hadn't heard before. It sounded almost tender. "Miss Granger, such bitterness is unseemly in a woman as… young as you are."

She was so surprised by the way that he said it that she opened her eyes and looked at him. His face had barely changed, but his eyes had lost their usual shielded blankness, and he gazed at her with a look of such pity and sorrow that it made her suddenly long to grab him and cling to him as she had done with Madame Pomfrey and Mrs. Weasley.

But of course, she reminded herself, she didn't deserve that sort of pity, even from him. The sorrow must surely be for himself. Guilt, the guilt that she had not yet learned to ignore or push away, tugged at her heart painfully. "I—I'm sorry, Professor. It affects you too, doesn't it?"

"Not yet," he said simply, picking up her wand from where she'd dropped it on the blanket and turning it over in his hands. "Perhaps not ever. These two phenomena have never been observed in conjunction before."

"Oh."

"Miss Granger, may I sit down?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "Of course, sir. I didn't realize you were waiting for me to—I'm sorry. Please, sit down, Professor."

He adjusted the chair slightly and placed himself in it, scrutinizing her face thoughtfully. "You apologize too often, Miss Granger, and rarely do you apologize for things that are your fault."

She wished he wouldn't look at her. "Plenty of things are my fault, sir. If it wasn't for me, you—"

"Would be dead, and any true memories of me would be soon overshadowed by my untimely martyrdom for the cause. I daresay even Potter would begin to remember me with affection before long. I am… glad to have the opportunity to live long enough to remind all of my admirers that I am, as I ever was, a thoroughly bad piece of work."

The corners of his mouth tightened suspiciously, as though he were suppressing a smile. She smiled in response, in spite of herself.

"I just… I know that you think I'm just Harry Potter's loudmouthed, know-it-all hanger-on, and I know it can't be pleasant for you to have to be attached to me like this."

"Do you honestly think, Miss Granger, that I would prefer death to this?"

The question penetrated to her heart, and she didn't trust herself to answer immediately. She _had _thought that, also the thought hadn't been conscious until he pointed it out with such painful accuracy. She couldn't admit it out loud, though. To admit it would be to make it far more true than it yet was.

"Rest assured," he said softly, "I do not."

"Really?"

He simply looked at her, and she realized that, as strange as it was, she believed him. In spite of the fact that he'd been an accomplished liar since before she was even born, she simply could not make herself believe that he would lie—especially not for the mere purpose of making _her _feel better.

"I am not your Head of House, Miss Granger, nor have I ever been in the habit of mollycoddling self-pitying students. Rest assured, I will not lie to you and I will not flatter you. Do not expect me to be sympathetic at every turn, merely because your own emotions have so completely taken control of you."

Embarrassed, she lowered her head. "I'm sorry."

His Adam's apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed. "There is something I would like to discuss with you, and I also… would like your permission to use your first name, Miss Granger."

"You've used it before," she whispered.

"Only under duress. It would not be appropriate for me to use it without your permission in a general sense."

"You—yes, sir, you may."

He didn't look relieved. If anything, he looked less comfortable than before. "Very good." He cleared his throat, his hand straying to his neck and rubbing his scar through his collar. She delicately avoided looking at the spot.

"Hermione—" he paused, his cheeks coloring slightly. He looked almost _embarrassed_. "—My mother was a witch, as you are probably aware. Her name was Eileen Prince. Although the Prince name has since died out almost completely, it was at one point considered to be a noble family. She was the last of her line, and she was a very talented and powerful witch, unlike most true purebloods that you may be acquainted with." A ghost of a smirk crossed his face, gone so soon that she wasn't entirely sure she'd seen it. Had he really just intimated what she thought he had about the students of his House?

"She was very quiet, and very studious, and therefore she was not generally well-liked at school. By the time she left Hogwarts, she had very few friends at all. Afterwards, she withdrew from Wizarding society completely and lived with her parents. The Princes," he said quietly, "were supporters of the Dark Lord from very early on, almost as soon as he began his rise to power, well before he was generally known. With the exception of my mother, who was sorted into Ravenclaw, the Princes have been almost exclusively linked with Slytherin house, from the time of Salazar Slytherin himself. She never fully gave the Dark Lord her allegiance, as far as I know, but she certainly dabbled in the Dark Arts, with the full encouragement of her parents. It did nothing to improve her reputation."

The drizzle outside had turned into serious rain, which now drummed loudly against the window panes. It provided an oddly soothing backdrop to the story, and she listened with interest, although she didn't understand why it was pertinent.

"Very soon after this, my mother met a Muggle named Tobias Snape. She told me once that he was quite a handsome man, in his youth, although I derive both my coloring and my… facial features… from him," he said dryly. "He served in the army during the war, and acquitted himself well. My mother found him charming."

He cleared his throat carefully. "She was quite young when they married, several years younger than he was. Her parents were outraged, and cast her out. She made the very foolish error of keeping her… background… a secret from her husband until after they were married. She believed that his _love _for her would make it easy for him to accept the fact, when she revealed it."

Hermione, instead of watching his face, watched his hands as he spoke. He still held her wand, and his fingertip was tracing slowly over the delicate runes carved into the handle. Somehow, she knew what was coming next.

"In this, she was mistaken. Tobias was outraged and, I suppose, frightened. It became evident very soon after their marriage that he was subject to extreme bouts of temper, frequently fueled by alcohol. My father was not a gentle man, Hermione, nor a kind one."

He sighed deeply. "However, my mother loved him, and even if she had not, there was nowhere for her to go. Her parents never formally disowned her, but they refused to speak to or forgive her for marrying a Muggle, and she had no other friends or family to turn to. She stayed at his side loyally, in spite of his mistreatment of her."

He stopped speaking suddenly and looked at her, a deep sadness in his eyes.

"He would not let my mother work, or even leave the house. He himself found employment at a mill, and it was sufficient to keep food on the table. They lived at Spinner's End, which, as you know, I have since inherited. My father inherited it from his father. Passing it on to me was the only real fatherly act he ever did."

"Well before I was born, my mother was completely cowed. She was always quiet, but she was not a naturally submissive woman. He broke her, both her heart and her spirit. And," he suddenly gripped the wand so tightly that his knuckles went completely white, "in spite of all this, she loved him completely. A year before I was born, my mother lost her ability to use magic."

She finally understood why he was telling her this history, and she shivered, drawing her blankets more closely around herself. She hoped fervently that he was building up to some sort of happy ending, but she doubted it very much.

"I believe that my birth was one last attempt on her part to gain his love. He believed that with her ability to use magic gone, she would not be able to impart that ability to me. When I was first born, he was very proud of me indeed. In fact, he doted on me far more than he ever did her."

He'd gone back to turning her wand gently in his hands again. Normally it would have bothered her to let someone else touch it so much, but to her surprise, she didn't mind at all when he did it.

"It did not last long. My magical ability began to show itself very early on, and when it became clear that I would be even more powerful than my mother had once been, I believe he hated me all the more for the way that he had loved me at first. He felt duped."

For a while after that, they simply sat in silence, listening to the steady beat of the rain. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he continued:

"He took his anger out on my mother with physical violence. He took it out on me with neglect. We were both treated cruelly, and I grew up burdened with the knowledge that, had I not been born and had I not been able to do magic, my mother would have suffered far less at his hands.

"There is one thing, however, that has assuaged that guilt. My mother… loved me passionately. When I was born, she regained some of her power, although not much. She never ceased loving my father, Hermione, although I do not believe that he ever loved her to begin with. Had she not been so attached to him, she might have recovered all of her ability to use magic at some point. In the end, however, she was able to use it only when it was on my behalf."

A faint stirring of hope made itself felt in the back of Hermione's mind. It was a small thing, but at least she'd got _some _of it back, when she saw a reason to use it.

"There were terrible fights, terrible arguments. We were very poor. I spent most of my childhood dreaming of Hogwarts, dreaming of the day when I could get away from both of them and escape to a world where I would not be shut out because of a talent I was born with, but rather accepted and loved for it. We had to sneak out of the house to buy my wand and school robes. My mother's parents had squandered nearly all of the Prince family fortune on the Dark Lord, but a pittance was left to my mother when they died, and she saved that to buy my wand.

"My father allowed her to take me to London to meet the Hogwarts Express only because of his relief that I would be out of the house and left to someone else to take care of for most of the year. He insisted that she leave me there and return immediately. I waited with Lily Evans' family to board the train, instead of with my mother."

Hermione looked at him, trying to imagine what he'd been like as a small, grubby little boy, hiding in a corner as he watched his hook-nosed father beat the skinny, pale girl that she remembered seeing in the school records. She almost reached out to touch him, wanting to comfort him somehow, but she restrained herself. This was a man who, in spite of being her professor and having every right to do so, had asked permission before using her first name. She doubted he would be comfortable if she touched him.

"I tell you this," he said very quietly, "because I hope it might bring you some small shred of comfort. My mother… had a very hard life. But even she, tied by her own choice into a life of terrible pain and suffering, regained some of her magical ability before the end. Your situation is far more hopeful than hers was, Hermione."

She wished that she had Crookshanks. She missed his comforting weight on her legs, the warmth that soaked through the blankets from his body and the low, contented hum of his purring.

Professor Snape gently laid her wand back on the bed as he stood up.

"Do not… despair, Hermione," he said in a rather strangled voice. "I bear some responsibility for our situation as well, and I would prefer that you not waste so much time and energy on guilt. Be reassured, rather, that you are not _entirely_ alone."

0 0 0

He gave a heartbroken groan, his face buried in his hands. A warm, cheerful fire crackled on the hearth, thanks to the diligence of the Hogwarts House-Elves, who insisted on keeping Minerva's office ready for her at all times, whether she was on the grounds or not.

"You did the right thing, Severus," said Dumbledore sympathetically, "as you almost always do, when one considers it. I am glad that you thought better of charging after Mr. Malfoy immediately. That would not, I think, have gone very well, and you would do none of us any good in Azkaban."

He chuckled halfheartedly, but Severus did not respond. He did not do so much as lift his head. He could feel one sharp edge of his mother's photograph digging into his skin through the inner pocket of his robes.

"I could not look at her, Headmaster," he said, half-choking on the words. "Her eyes were… they were my mother's eyes, in her face. I could not look."

"It was incredibly brave of you to tell her what you did, Severus," said the Headmaster very gently.

"It was incredibly sentimental and impulsive, you mean," he said bitterly. "It was an incredibly _Gryffindor _thing to do, and only provided more evidence that I am not only tied to the girl but doomed to suffer under the weight of her soul."

"As she is doomed to suffer under the weight of yours."

"Do you think I do not _know _that?" he shouted. "And I can do nothing about it! I have nothing to do but to sit and wait, to see whether she begins to sap from me what she has already destroyed in herself, while I wallow in the guilt of knowing that every stain and fracture on my own soul has injured her as much as hers have injured me."

"Not destroyed," said Dumbledore sharply. "I am very relieved to hear that she has lost her magical ability, Severus. It bodes well for her."

"You are as senile as a portrait as you were in life, Dumbledore!" he snarled, wishing that he dared to throw something at him and settling, instead, for throwing his half-eaten biscuit into the fire.

"Indeed I am," said the Headmaster cheerfully, "but the fact remains that this development will be a help to her, and not a hindrance, in the end."

"I haven't the energy for riddles at the moment, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore sighed, his cheerful attitude melting away into a look of true sadness and regret. "Oh Severus, did I never explain these things to you when you were a child? I should have--once again, I find that I must beg your pardon for something."

He stared moodily into the fire, watching his biscuit crackle and slowly turn black. He felt like a sullen teenager again, like the angry, frightened boy who dreaded returning home to his wasted mother every summer, simultaneously pitying and hating her for her weakness. Damn it all to hell, there were _reasons_ he didn't talk about her. What had he been thinking, bringing her up like that?

"As far as it is understood, magic is a matter of the soul, Severus. It is not understood why certain souls have the ability and others do not, or why some are so much stronger or weaker. But we do understand a _few_ things."

He steepled his fingers thoughtfully, looking at a spot just over Severus' head.

"When a Muggle experiences a horrible trauma, or a series of traumas, they must rely only on the power of their mind to assuage the suffering of their soul. They use logic, they talk or write endlessly, thinking obsessively about what they have suffered. They do all that they can to siphon that pain away from the deepest part of themselves. Sometimes they succeed, but many times they fail, and they break. Some of them break permanently. It is a terrible thing to witness, Severus," he said gravely, "when a person is so damaged that they lose something as… fundamental as their mind or, Merlin forbid, their soul."

Dumbledore's eyes were strangely bright and they glittered with what looked suspiciously like unshed tears. Severus thought of the tiny hints that the Headmaster had dropped about his sister over the years, and wondered exactly what the truth of that situation was. Whatever it might be, he was certain that it would be nearly the polar opposite of whatever Rita Skeeter claimed.

"People imbued with magical power have a resource that Muggles do not. They have, to put it very simply indeed, _magic_. Think of it as a second soul, if you like, or a second mind, or a second heart. When a witch or wizard experiences a trauma, that extra portion of their soul siphons much of it away from them, allowing them to endure it far better than a non-magical person could. When the ordeal is severe or long-lasting, like that of Miss Granger… or your mother," he said sympathetically, making Severus twitch slightly, "it literally exhausts not only the resources of the soul and mind, but of a person's magic, as well."

Dumbledore looked at him, apparently waiting for an answer, but Severus had none to give.

"She is healing herself, Severus. It may take some time, but her injury is not ongoing. She will recover, and far more quickly than she would if she were not an exceptionally powerful witch. Think of her as merely being exhausted by extensive use of wandless magic, very similar to that which also saved your life."

Severus snorted. "It is high time that Miss Granger's soul ceased exercising so much initiative."

The Headmaster chuckled merrily. "Ah, Severus, your wit never abandons you even in the darkest of moments, does it? Now, let us move on. We have other pressing matters to discuss. What do you propose to do about Mr. Malfoy?"

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly and wishing he could simply will Draco out of existence. "I do not know, although I have decided after much thought that killing him is _not_ the best solution."

One of the oldest Headmasters snorted from somewhere high up on the wall. "In _my_ day—" he began grumpily.

"Indeed, Godfrey," said Dumbledore mildly, "but the Middle Ages have long since passed us by, and it is no longer politic to execute Hogwarts students without due process. I would remind you yet again that the school is now under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic."

Headmaster Godfrey Llewelyn grunted loudly and disapprovingly.

"Obviously you must inform Minerva," continued Dumbledore, as though they hadn't been interrupted at all. "He cannot be allowed to stay at the school. Do you think it will be possible to prevail upon Miss Granger to testify against him before the Wizengamot?"

"I do not know. I believe she would not have told me at all, had she not been so distressed by the news about Percy Weasley."

Dumbledore looked grave. "Ah, yes. That is most unfortunate news indeed. I confess, I am quite surprised by it. Mr. Weasley has always been driven, but coming from that family—"

"He has always been ambitious," interrupted Severus sharply, "and he has always been pompous. Blood traitors the Weasleys may be, but their blood is far more pure than that of most Wizarding families in existence today, and with their connection to the Order, he made a natural target for the Dark Lord."

"Did you know of this?"

He shifted slightly in his chair, feeling guilty. "I did not."

"It is imperative that Minerva be informed of all this, Severus, as soon as possible."

"I have telephoned. She is returning."

"Telephoned. My goodness. How very ingenious, using Muggle methods of communication to avoid detection. I commend you. Very well, then, Minerva is returning. In the meantime, however, Mr. Malfoy must be dealt with. I do not feel he should be allowed to continue roaming the school freely, given what we now know about him."

Severus nodded, scowling darkly. "Nor do I, Dumbledore. My threats against his life were not made idly."

How could those eyes penetrate him so when they were only fashioned from paint? "There have been other such attacks at this school during your tenure, Severus. You have never come close to making such a threat against a student before."

"The student was never my godson before."

"And the victim was never Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, far too meaningfully for Severus' comfort. His muscles tensed involuntarily, and he stayed silent.

"Naturally," he continued conversationally, "it is different when the victim is a fellow member of the Order."

"Naturally," said Severus stiffly.

Dumbledore gave him a disingenuous nod. "I should have thought of that myself, of course, and not wasted your time by making the inquiry." Severus scowled. Even as a painting, the Headmaster was incapable of keeping his hints and innuendoes to himself.

"As to Draco," said Severus pointedly, "what do you advise?"

"Normally I would tell you to leave it to the Head of House to deal with, but Slughorn is, unfortunately, not a disciplinarian, and you were his Head when the crime was committed. I suggest that perhaps he ought to be confined to the Hospital Wing, where Poppy can keep an eye on him until Minerva arrives."

Severus raised his eyebrows, feeling his mouth fall open slightly. "Albus, are you actually _telling_ me to injure the boy?"

"My goodness," said Dumbledore brightly, "what an absurd question to ask!"

"Is it?" he asked suspiciously.

"My dear Severus, don't you think it would be terribly uncharacteristic of me to advocate the injury of a student by a professor? I confess I am not entirely the same as the real Dumbledore, but I think that I have been painted to capture him quite well—"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "You _did_, didn't you?"

"It _would_, however," said Dumbledore, "be completely within your own character to do such a thing, without any outside suggestion, especially given your personal relationship with Mr. Malfoy. You must admit, you have a very volatile temper. I caution you not to let it carry you away."

0 0 0

The door to the Hospital Wing opened and a tall, redheaded young man stumbled in, already removing his hat, scarf, and soaking wet outer robes.

"Blimey, it's really coming down out there," puffed Ron as he approached, his cheeks and nose bright red from the cold. "And bloody freezing."

Hermione, propped up against her pillows and holding a cup of tea, found it so difficult to believe that Ron had the gall to show up at the Hospital Wing _on bloody Christmas_ and behave as though nothing was wrong that she couldn't answer, at first.

"Happy Christmas," he said, beaming rather soppily at her as he draped his wet things over the edge of Hermione's bed and drew the curtain closed around them. "You haven't even opened your presents yet—have you only just got up?" He added another gift to the pile, making it significantly less tidy in the process as he knocked several of the other gifts over. "Sorry about that. It's a tiny little table, that, I don't know why they don't get bigger ones."

She wrapped both hands around her teacup, clutching it tightly and staring at him.

"I'm so happy to see you. We went all the way to Australia, you know, but Professor Snape wouldn't let us see you, the git." He deposited himself on the edge of her bed, patting her knee affectionately.

"And then mum said you'd gone back to Hogwarts instead of staying at the Burrow, and then Professor Flitwick said you were in here. Are you all right?" he added anxiously, looking her over as though he expected her to be at death's door.

She looked at him for a moment.

"What," she said very slowly and angrily, "are you doing here?"

The room went as silent as though he'd disappeared completely. He looked utterly bewildered.

"What do you mean, what'm I doing here?" he asked, as soon as he'd recovered himself. "It's Christmas. You can't spend Christmas all by yourself, especially not in here." He looked around the Hospital Wing rather disdainfully. "Well, it's not exactly home, is it?"

"No," she said icily, "it's not exactly home. But then, as I haven't any _home_, Ronald, this will have to do."

"Don't be daft, Hermione, you know you can always stay at Grimmauld Place, and it's not as though mum would turn you out of the Burrow—"

"As if I'd live at the Burrow with such a complete buggering _prick_ as you!"

He drew back, shocked. "Hermione!"

"Don't you bloody 'Hermione' me! How _dare_ you come in here on bloody _Christmas_ after calling me what you did and expect me to act like everything is just going to go on the same as it was!"

From the sounds that came from outside the enclosing curtain, Hermione was vaguely aware that Harry and Ginny had just rushed in, puffing rather loudly and talking in low, hurried voices.

"Where else would I go on Christmas when you're in the Hospital Wing? You're my girlfriend, we're practically _engaged_, and you refused to stay at my house and wait for me—"

She had a sudden wild urge to leap forward and throttle him with her bare hands. "I am _not_ your girlfriend, and we are _not _practically engaged," she said, as coldly as she possibly could. "Nor will I ever be your girlfriend again."

"But Hermione—"

"Go find some other mudblood to sully yourself with," she said venomously.

"Well I _am_ sorry about calling you that, Hermione. I just flew off the handle. I can't help my temper, you should have got used to it by now. You _know _I always come back. And you have to admit, I sort of had a right to, I mean, we've practically been dating since we were kids, and for you to just sneak off and do it with someone else, well, that's pretty low—"

"Ron," said Ginny in a tight, angry voice as she slipped through the curtain and came up behind him, "you are an idiot, and if you don't shut up and get out, Hermione's going to hex your bollocks off." As an afterthought, she added, "and if Hermione doesn't, I will. Harry, get him out of here."

Harry, ducking in behind her, grabbed Ron by the arm and hauled him off the bed. "I _told_ you," he said through his teeth, "I _told_ you not to do this. You can't just go saying things like that and expect her to ignore them forever, and you crossed the line, mate—"

The curtain flew open so violently that Hermione felt the wind of it on her face. Professor Snape stood just behind Harry and Ron, in a towering rage.

"_Weasley_," he said, practically quivering with anger. "_Get out_."

At least this time Ron was smart enough to keep his mouth closed. He spun around to face Professor Snape so quickly that he lost his balance and fell back against Harry, who barely caught him.

"Detention, Weasley," barked Professor Snape, his eyes flashing. "For a month, and if I ever hear of you using words like that again, I will personally see to it that you develop an _intimate_ relationship with Mr. Filch's collection of antique disciplinary tools."

"You can't give me detention during holidays," said Ron uncertainly.

Professor Snape took a step forward, looking horribly menacing. "Do not try my patience, Weasley. You are on school grounds and you will be returning to them as a student in less than two weeks. At that time, you _will _serve detention, and I don't care how unfair you find it to be."

His eyes traveled briefly over the other players in the scene. Hermione still held her death grip on her teacup. Harry had Ron by the arms, and Ginny was slowly inching closer to the bed.

"Get him out of here, Potter," said Professor Snape, utterly disgusted.

Without a word, Harry led Ron away. Hermione listened to the echo of his voice as they left: "—_Snape_, eavesdropping just so he could go after me during holidays, the greasy bastard—"

"—shut _up_, Ron—"

The doors slammed shut.

"Miss Granger," said Professor Snape, his eyes moving to Ginny. Apparently he was only planning to use her first name in private, which suited Hermione just fine. "You are well enough to return to your dormitory and complete your convalescence there."

That took her off-guard. "Sir, Madame Pomfrey—" 

"Madame Pomfrey," he interrupted, looking down at his robes as he straightened them a bit, "will shortly be returning with another student who requires these facilities. I do not think that you would… appreciate the invasion of your privacy." He arched one eyebrow. She wondered what he could possibly be talking about.

"I can just keep the curtain closed," she faltered, "it won't bother me to have another—"

"Speaking as his former Head of House," said Professor Snape repressively, "I think that he would value privacy as well. I believe he is in a great deal of pain."

Something in his eyes made Hermione very suspicious, and she frowned.

"Was there an accident, sir?" asked Ginny.

"No, Miss Weasley," said Professor Snape, looking directly at her for the first time. "There was not. Now, although you unfortunately arrived too late to stop your brother from making a fool of himself, I hope that you will make yourself useful and assist Miss Granger to Gryffindor tower."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Wrote this all in one sitting (except for eating dinner) in about 4 1/2 hours. That was intense. But I like this chapter, so it's ok. :) 

Many thanks, as usual, to Renita, Juno, and Harmony, and also to Heather.

Oh reviewers and readers and all, you are lovely and I hope that you are happy with this, my latest offering.


	40. I Hear You, I Will Come

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 40: I Hear You, I Will Come**

* * *

Draco was one of only Slytherins remaining at the school during Christmas. With his parents in Azkaban and Malfoy Manor still packed full of Aurors, he simply had no other place to go.

Severus found him in the Common Room, sprawled languidly on a couch with a smutty novel. He recognized it as the same sort that he remembered Narcissa reading during their school days—reading while stretched across that very same couch, in fact. Some things never changed, it seemed.

"Draco," he said coldly. Draco sat up, his book falling to the floor.

"Uncle Severus!" he said, looking genuinely pleased to see him. At one point, Severus might have felt guilt for what he was about to do. Now, however, he could not find it in him to feel anything but a grim sense of purpose. "Happy Christmas," said Draco, with somewhat forced cheerfulness.

He did not smile. "We must… talk, Draco."

The boy's pale gray eyes grew wide and anxious. "Is it my mother, sir?"

"Your mother is well. I have already sent a petition on her behalf to Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. I believe that she will be released to house arrest at the least." Whatever Lucius and Draco's failings, Severus loved Narcissa as a sister, and she _would _die in Azkaban, if left there. He found it unconscionable. She'd done her share of wicked things, but he'd been close enough to the Dark Lord in the final days to know that she had long since ceased to fawn over or admire him.

"Thank you, sir," said Draco deferentially, lowering his head for a moment. Severus could criticize Lucius for nearly everything he'd ever done, but his son was a paragon of pureblood manners when he was around someone who he thought deserved his respect. Severus was the only person at Hogwarts who'd ever seen it.

"Draco," he said commandingly, his voice ringing out through the empty room with an odd echo. Draco's head snapped back up, and he looked Severus in the face, standing very straight.

"Sir?" he said respectfully.

Severus gazed at the boy for a long moment, tasting the bitterness of his disappointment. "You have disappointed me very greatly," he said in a soft, formal tone, beginning the ritual of the Sundering Ceremony, although Draco did not yet know it.

"I—I have, sir?" he said, faltering for the first time, his forehead creasing in doubt.

"I have discovered a most distressing fact, Draco."

"Yes, sir?"

"It has come to my attention that you have assaulted one of your fellow students."

Draco swallowed, his eyes darting around nervously. Severus wondered how on earth the boy could have perpetrated the attack that Miss Granger had described. He was a coward, far more than his father ever had been.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," he said.

"You are a talented liar, Draco, but not good enough to fool me. _Legilimens!_"

It was harder to get into Draco's mind than it had been to get into Potter's. Bellatrix had taught him Occlumency, and taught him well. Draco had repelled him in his sixth year—but in Draco's sixth year, Severus had still been maintaining his cover, and so had been unwilling to force the matter. Now, he had no reason to hold back..

With a little effort, he forced himself past the boy's defenses.

"What are you doing?" said Draco angrily.

"Fool," snarled Severus, "did you honestly believe I could not penetrate your thoughts? I have no more need for restraint. I _will _discover what you have done."

As he had hoped and anticipated, he found almost immediately a memory from just a few days prior in which he'd hexed a first year, apparently for the simple pleasure of doing so. It would serve as a valid excuse for the search in the first place, allowing him to 'stumble across' the memories of Hermione and protect her from retaliation, should Draco find a chance to attempt it.

He continued to look, searching for the thing that he knew had to be there. He found it all too soon, although he was surprised by what he saw: Draco in Hogsmeade, lying on the ground as Hermione cast _Crucio_ on him. He studied the memory more carefully, working his way back through it. He'd been lying in wait for her, watching her for weeks, furious and ashamed of his parents' incarceration and anxious to take it out on someone.

"Draco," he snapped, "what is the meaning of this?"

"I—sir, it was nothing, you saw what she did, she—"

"Do you take me for a fool? You attacked her first!"

Severus was shouting louder than he intended, and Draco took a step back, looking terrified. It baffled Severus how his incompetent, sniveling worm of a godson could have committed such a brutal and violent act. It was no wonder that they'd all expected him to die in his attempts to murder Albus Dumbledore. He was a coward.

"I heard you refer," he said, forcing himself to lower his voice until it was merely a purr, barely audible through his clenched teeth, "to a previous encounter between the Granger girl and yourself."

"N-no, sir." Draco stepped back as Severus stepped forward.

"Do—not—_lie_—to me, boy! _Legilimens_!"

This time the memory rose to the front of Draco's mind almost effortlessly. Severus allowed himself a grim smile. At the very least he'd managed to successfully manipulate Draco; the boy handed him the memory practically without waiting to be asked. His emotions were completely out of control.

His memory paralleled Hermione's. Severus watched again, sickened. Draco stalked her as she left the Hospital Wing, barely recovered from the battle at the Ministry. She was weak and vulnerable, and Draco was humiliated and terribly angry. What better object to take it out on than Potter's mudblood best friend?

"_Tell anyone and I'll kill your parents," panted Draco, listening hungrily for each of her tortured, pain-wracked cries. "I'll send my father after them, you bitch." He thrust particularly sharply and she gave a shout of pain that sent a twisted surge of pleasure through him. _

"_Your father's in Azkaban, Malfoy," she whispered bitterly, the words almost impossible to understand through the tears that choked them._

"_Shut up! _SHUT UP_, you slut!" shouted Malfoy, slapping her hard across the face. "He won't be there long, and when he gets out, your parents will be dead, if my mother and I don't get them sooner!"_

He yanked himself out of the memory and out of Draco's filthy mind. Somehow, his wand had got into his hand and was out, pointing at his godson. Draco was white and shaking. He'd backed into the stone wall, watching warily as Severus moved still closer to him.

"What did you do, Draco?" said Severus in his most dangerous voice, hating the very sight of the boy.

"Nothing she didn't deserve," said Draco sullenly. "I thought you'd understand. She's only a mudblood, it isn't like she didn't deserve it."

Severus took another step closer to him. "I understand," he said silkily, "that you are every inch your father's son. Draco!" His voice rang out through the room again. "You have disappointed me very greatly."

"You said that already," muttered Draco, his hand inching towards his wand.

"I renounce your father," said Severus. Draco's eyes went very wide.

"What?"

"I renounce your mother."

The boy stared at him in shock. "What are you doing?"

"I renounce my guardianship of their son."

Magic began to pulse around them, encompassing both of them in a faint golden light. Draco stared at him, openmouthed. Severus doubted that he even knew of the Sundering Ceremony's existence. It was rarely used anymore, a remnant of the old days of pureblood aristocrats, who were far more likely to disown their charges for things like consorting with Muggles and their magical offspring than even the Malfoys and their ilk.

He advanced relentlessly, until their faces were quite close. "I renounce my keeping of their child," he said, his voice still clear and commanding. The surface of his skin prickled as the magic flowing between them made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. "I renounce my warding over his blood and his body."

"You—you can't do that!"

"Draco Claudius Malfoy," he said, his voice growing still louder as he raised his wand and prepared to complete the ceremony, "you are no son of mine, and I am no father of yours. From now until the end of your days, we are sundered."

A noise like a clap of thunder sounded and the golden light intensified and then dissipated into nothingness.

"What did you just do?" Draco's voice was a horrified whisper as he stared at the man who had been his godfather.

Severus allowed himself a cruel smile. "I would have thought that it was obvious. I will not be allied to you any longer, Draco. You will go to Azkaban for this, and you will rot there."

Draco snatched at his wand and raised it, his hand shaking. "No! You can't do this to me!"

"It is done, Draco."

"_Stupefy!_" shouted Draco. Severus got his shield charm up just barely in time, and the spell ricocheted harmlessly off into the wall.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," he said coldly. Draco froze where he was, a look of fear and loathing plastered immovably onto his scarred face. "Learn what it is to be helpless, Draco."

Draco could not struggle, beyond a few angry grunts and wordless protestations. Severus slashed his wand at the boy and his body fell to the ground, his head making a loud thud as it hit the floor. He made no effort to cushion the fall for him. The Sundering had released him from his magically enforced duty to watch over Draco and his inability to injure his godson, and he fully intended to make him suffer for what he'd done.

"I would kill you," he said impassively, "if you were worthy of the honor. _Sectumsempra._"

Wide gashes appeared in Draco's robes, and blood welled up from his stomach and hips as the spell made deep, vertical cuts into his body that perfectly mirrored those he'd given to Hermione. Severus watched with deep satisfaction as crimson began to soak into the deep green fabric and Draco began to twitch and shake, his skin going white as the flowing blood formed an ever-widening pool around him.

"I will inform a House-Elf to fetch you to the Hospital Wing," he said, tilting his head and looking down at Draco as though he were a somewhat boring specimen in a jar. Without another word, he spun on his heel, his robes billowing around him. He paused at the door and, almost as an afterthought, cast a nonverbal charm to keep the blood flow sluggish enough that the boy would not bleed to death before Poppy got to him.

If he bothered to justify the violence to himself, he would have pretended that it was due to his personal disappointment in his charge, and had nothing to do with his guilty torment over the torture that Hermione had been subjected to under his watch.

0 0 0

"I'm sorry," said Ginny, helping Hermione into bed. "We told him not to come. We discussed it on the plane and Harry thought it might be all right by the time we got back, but we both knew when mum said you wouldn't stay at the Burrow that he was in trouble. He sneaked out without telling us."

Hermione watched as Ginny began to artfully arrange her Christmas gifts on the trunk at the foot of her bed, wondering if she knew about Percy; if she, too, was complicit in concealing his secret. The thought disgusted and frightened her, even as she forced herself to remember that the Weasleys surely would not hide someone who wasn't innocent—would they? And if Professor Snape had managed to walk away from _his_ Death Eater career without support and help from anyone other than Dumbledore, surely Percy could do it with his whole family standing behind him.

Couldn't he?

She sighed and nestled into her bed as Ginny drew up a chair.

"How are you feeling?"

"Honestly?" Hermione tugged her blankets a little higher up. "Tired of being in bed." _And sore, and lonely, and angry, and miserable, and frightened_, she added privately.

"I'm—I'm so sorry about your mum and dad, Hermione."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh… well, if you ever do, I'm here, you know." Ginny looked at her uncertainly. "Are you angry with me, too? If you'd prefer I go—"

"You don't need to. It's not you I'm upset about."

"Ron's an arse."

She made a face. "Yes, he is, and I don't know what on earth he thought he doing, coming here like that—but it's not that either, Gin."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Hermione looked down, pulling a bit of lint off her blanket. "There's not, but thanks for asking anyway."

They sat in silence for a while, Ginny watching Hermione and Hermione watching the rain as it slid in slow, endless drops down the windows.

"Lovely weather for Christmas," commented Ginny dryly. Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling faintly.

"Oh, very."

"Hope we'll see much more of it."

"If we're lucky." She rearranged the blankets around herself a little too casually. "It snowed last Christmas," she said, apropos of nothing.

Ginny looked at her thoughtfully. "You were in Godric's Hollow, weren't you?"

"Yes." Oddly enough, some small part of Hermione wanted to be back there, alone with Harry in the dark, snow-muffled night. Things were so much less complicated then. She gave a short, sardonic little laugh.

"Hermione?"

"I was just thinking how sad it is that last Christmas seems wonderful by comparison with this one."

"Oh, I don't know," said Ginny slowly. "It's probably better for nearly everyone this year, but you've had a rough time of it."

"You have no idea."

Ginny hesitated. "There was—well, we heard a rumor that Damien Wilkes found you."

Something tightened in Hermione's throat. "He did."

"Oh, Hermione… I wish I could help—"

"Well, you can't," she said shortly. Then she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Look, Ginny, you don't want to be here with me. It's Christmas and I'm not exactly good company at the moment. Go find Harry and get back to the Burrow, or Grimmauld Place, or wherever you all ended up."

"You shouldn't be alone like this on Christmas—"

"Only I _want_ to be alone. Go. You and Harry drag Ron back to your mum."

Ginny's face took on a rather fierce look. "Mum's going to kill him when she finds out what he did to you.

"Save it for later though, won't you? I've already spoiled Christmas for enough people," she said, thinking of Professor Snape and of all the people currently in Australia on her account. Ginny looked at her curiously.

"Whose Christmas have you spoiled?"

"I think half the Aurors in the Ministry are in Australia right now—"

"Hunting Death Eaters, because there's a war on," said Ginny incredulously. "Come off it, Hermione. You've got enough on your plate without feeling guilty for things that aren't your fault."

Hermione punched her pillow moodily and repositioned it behind her back. "They wouldn't be there if not for me," she muttered.

"And you think that they're unhappy that you put them on the trail of a bunch of escaped war criminals who they were already hunting? Are you mad?"

"Of course I'm not mad!" she snapped. "I just would prefer not to be responsible for—for—I mean, what if someone gets killed?"

"They know the risks of the job," said Ginny. "You know they do. Hermione, are you sure you won't come home with us? Harry and I can make sure that Ron stays away from you, and—"

"No." She thought of Percy and shuddered.

Ginny sighed. "Harry wanted to have Christmas with everyone at Grimmauld Place. We could even leave Ron behind with mum and dad. Don't spend Christmas alone, Hermione."

For whatever reason, in that moment Professor Snape's words came back to her, and she felt a small smile tug at one corner of her mouth. "Don't worry about me, Ginny. I won't be alone."

Ginny's eyebrows went up slightly. "Who's going to be with you?"

"Everyone here," she said simply, not wanting to explain what she'd really thought of. "I'll get myself downstairs for the feast somehow, and I won't be alone. You and Ron and Harry go to Grimmauld Place, and tell Harry I'll spend the Easter holiday with him there or something."

She looked doubtful and still concerned. "If you're really sure—"

"I'm sure."

"Ron's a wanker," said Ginny passionately, leaning down and giving her a fierce hug. "I'll be back in a few days."

Hermione watched Ginny walk towards the door. "Wait a minute, Ginny."

The other girl stopped and looked back questioningly. "Yeah?"

"Tell Harry that he doesn't need to wait on me to finish the potion. He hasn't said much about it lately, but I know how badly he wants the truth, and I don't want to stand in the way."

Ginny smiled rather lopsidedly. "I think he's afraid to find out the truth."

"Of course he is, but he still wants to know what it is, afraid or not."

"I'll tell him." She sighed. "Goodbye, Hermione. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas," said Hermione as Ginny pulled the door closed behind her.

0 0 0

Poppy met him when he was halfway up the stairs, her face red and her cap askew.

"Severus Snape! What have you done?"

He sniffed, prising a tiny speck of blood out from beneath his fingernail. "I have… _dealt_ with Draco Malfoy."

"He's not dead, is he?"

"Poppy," he said reproachfully, "if he were dead, I would have had the House-Elves deposit him at your feet on the floor, rather than sending them to fetch you to his aid. He is not dead, nor will he die at my hands."

"Calmed down, have you?"

He raised his eyebrows. "No."

"Ah. May I ask what I ought to be preparing myself for?"

He rubbed the side of his nose, looking bored. "Blood."

0 0 0

Hermione saw no reason to stay in her bed any longer. If she was recovered enough to return to Gryffindor tower, she was recovered enough to go sit quietly in the library and do some research. A little reading never hurt anyone, even someone who'd been cruciated and thrown against walls and committed murder and been subjected to all sorts of mortification.

Accordingly, once Ginny was gone she changed into warmer clothes, pulled her mother's thick, warm jumper back on and, leaving her Christmas gifts still untouched, began to make her way down to the library. It was somewhat slow going. She was still sore and, though she kept her wand out, she moved forward very cautiously. She had no idea if she'd be able to protect herself, should the need arise, and she knew that Draco had stayed at Hogwarts over the holiday.

Thinking of Draco, however, reminded her of Professor Snape and his bizarre statement in the Hospital Wing when he sent her out. It had been so strange—a student injured, but not by accident, and requiring so much privacy that the Hospital Wing needed to be cleared? She couldn't remember Madame Pomfrey ever doing such a thing before.

Was it even remotely possible that Professor Snape had meant to tell her that _Draco_ was injured, and that he'd found a tactful way of letting her escape him without alerting Ginny?

And did that mean that he'd been the one to injure Draco, if indeed it was Draco who was injured? But why would he do such a thing? Hermione shook her head. It was a silly thing to think. She pushed it out of her mind.

0 0 0

"Poetic justice, Severus?" said Poppy rather sourly, gazing down at Draco. She'd sedated him heavily and dosed him up with as much Blood-Replenishing Potion as it was safe to give him at one time. "He nearly bled to death."

"Nearly."

"There's going to be horrible scarring, even with dittany."

His lip twisted. "Poor Draco."

Poppy snorted. "When is Minerva returning? I cannot leave these doors locked indefinitely while there are students in the school."

He could not stop looking at Draco, lying prone and vulnerable on the bed. Just another flick of his wand to finish the boy off, or at least injure him further. "I expect her at any moment."

As if on cue, the double doors burst open, revealing a sodden and furious Headmistress.

"Severus!" she shouted. The doors closed again behind her as she marched towards him, dripping cold rainwater on the floor as she went.

"Good afternoon, Minerva," he said conversationally, inclining his head.

"Dumbledore has just given me the most unbelievable piece of news," she said angrily. "He told me that you actually _attacked_ a student."

He gazed down at Draco. "I did not," he said evenly. "I disciplined my godson. Although," he added thoughtfully, "I suppose he was technically no longer my godson at that point."

She, too, looked at Draco. "You mean to tell me that it's _true?_ Have you absolutely taken leave of your senses?"

"Apparently Albus neglected to also inform you that it was his idea."

"I believe it is time for you to explain to me what, exactly, is going on."

"He didn't tell you?" asked Poppy, giving him a reproachful look.

"I did not feel it was wise to discuss such matters over the telephone."

Minerva unfastened her soaking wet outer robes and threw them over a chair. "Explain yourself, Professor Snape," she said sharply. "_Now_."

"Malfoy must be expelled, Minerva, and he must be sent to Azkaban. We did not deem it… wise, to allow him to continue to wander about the school unhindered, and Albus very helpfully suggested that we… confine him to the hospital wing."

She looked from Severus, to Poppy, to Draco, with a flabbergasted expression.

"Whatever for?"

Severus resisted the vicious urge to hex Draco where he lay. "For the rape, torture, and blackmail of Hermione Granger."

0 0 0

Madame Pince was nowhere to be seen, but the library doors were open and the lights cast a warm golden glow through the large room. Hermione wandered through the stacks, dragging her fingers over the spines of the books and breathing in the comforting scent of leather and dust and ink.

She wasn't entirely sure where to begin looking. She'd never had much reason to research the phenomenon before, beyond the cursory mention it was given in a few of their textbooks. She flipped through several volumes on love potions, wondering if it might be mentioned as a side effect of unrequited love. Finding nothing there, she began to go through the books that dealt with death, hoping that one of them might discuss grieving and its possible effect on magical ability. There, too, she came up short.

Finally, buried in a far corner of the library and covered with dust, she found a single book, very thick and bound in a shade of green that reminded her of things she'd seen only inside of Teddy Lupin's nappies. Stamped on the cover in yellow read the words, "An Analysis of Magical Psychology," and the name "S. Ferguson."

It was the most promising book she'd seen yet, and she carried it to a table and sat down. The table of contents listed an entire section on grief, and she flipped forward to it and began reading.

Half an hour later, Madame Pince passed by, but Hermione, completely engrossed, didn't even notice her.

0 0 0

For a few moments, Minerva said nothing. She merely stared at Draco, all color drained from her face.

"How do you know?" she finally said in a small voice.

"There's no doubt in my mind," said Poppy grimly before Severus could answer. "I examined her thoroughly. Whatever you may think of his methods, Minerva, I must say, I—in this case, I stand with Severus. The boy was brutal."

Severus cleared his throat to break the silence that fell around them.

"There is no defense I can offer you for my actions, Minerva. If you wish to discipline me for them, then by all means, do so. It is your right as Headmistress. However, as far as I am concerned, he is no longer a student at this school and I was therefore within my rights to… discuss the matter with him as I saw fit. The attack has been confirmed by both Malfoy and Herm—Miss Granger." He winced slightly at his mistake. "It is an offense punishable by immediate expulsion under school rules, and immediate imprisonment and trial under Ministry law."

"Where is Hermione?" asked Minerva, her eyes not moving from Draco's face. She, like Severus and Poppy, seemed transfixed and horrified by the sight of him.

"Gryffindor tower."

"Is that wise? Shouldn't she be here?"

Poppy's lips pressed together a little more tightly. "Probably, yes—but she's been treated for the injuries she got in Australia. I've got a supply of potions for her, and other than that, she only needs rest at this point. We felt she'd be more comfortable in her own bed, especially with Draco here."

"In Australia? What about—"

"The attack in question happened some time ago, and has only just been uncovered," said Severus brusquely, casting a very dirty look in Draco's direction.

Minerva sighed. "Have you called for the Aurors yet?"

"Not yet. I did not wish to act without consulting you, given the seriousness of the matter."

She nodded, and Severus thought of Hermione, sobbing bitterly over her memories of the assault. "Minerva… I feel that you ought to speak with her. With her parents gone, it would… I am sure she would welcome a word from you, and it is my hope that we might prevail upon her to testify before the Wizengamot."

"Poor, poor girl," murmured Minerva. "Yes, I'll speak with her. Severus, I _don't_ approve of your methods in the least, but as you say, there is a more personal relationship between the two of you than student and teacher, and given the circumstances, I am willing to view the incident as a family matter and not as a school one.

He inclined his head to her once more, feeling his hair brush over his cheekbones as he did. "Thank you."

"You say she's in Gryffindor tower?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Miss Weasley was with her, but I do not know if she is still there."

"As to Draco… he has demonstrated a great deal of remorse and positive change since the Battle, Severus. Are you sure that—"

"I am sure," he said softly, "that he has not only threatened, but actually attempted to assault her again since that time, Minerva. I believe that I am more willing even than you are to allow young people in his… situation… the benefit of the doubt, but I see no evidence that he has made a serious effort to become something other than what he was before the Battle."

A muscle tightened in her jaw. "Very well. I shall go to Gryffindor tower and visit Miss Granger. Severus, send an owl to Kingsley and have him send a team of Aurors to collect Malfoy."

They walked out of the Hospital Wing together and then separated, Minerva heading towards the Gryffindor dormitories and Severus towards his office to write to Shacklebolt. He composed the letter in his mind as he wrote, hardly realizing where he was going. By the time he was at his desk, he already knew precisely what to say.

He had half of it down on parchment when the flames jumped on his hearth and Minerva's head appeared, looking harried.

"Severus," she said urgently. "Miss Granger is missing."

He looked up from the parchment, oblivious to the ink that was dripping from the tip of his quill and leaving huge blotches on the letter. "What?"

"She's missing. She was not in her bed. I have searched the entire tower, and she is simply not here."

He was already at the door. "Alert the other professors. She is meant to be resting, and—I do not believe it is wise for her to wander alone at the moment, Minerva. She has… suffered a drain on her power that leaves her vulnerable."

"Merlin," breathed Minerva. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I preferred to allow her to tell you herself," he snapped, "but as she has proven once again to be far too similar to her friends, that opportunity has been lost to her."

Without waiting for an answer, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

0 0 0

It took her just under an hour to finish reading everything that the book had to say on grief and stress, and their effect on magic. Oddly enough, she found it rather comforting. It was good to know that she was actually doing something to help herself, however unwittingly. It also explained how she'd managed to make it through the day without falling apart completely.

Naturally it wouldn't fix everything. Some wounds simply could not be healed. Otherwise, she supposed, Neville's parents would not have spent nearly eighteen years in St. Mungo's. Still, it gave her a little hope. She might not be permanently cursed to live as a Squib where once she'd been the most talented witch of her age.

She closed the book slowly, looking down at the cover. It was comforting, but it was a cold sort of comfort. Soon enough, everyone would be back at school, and she wouldn't be able to keep her loss a secret for long. Professor Snape might just prove to be uncharacteristically kind enough to refrain from asking her to demonstrate any spells in his classes, and she'd probably manage to muddle through in Potions. But Transfiguration? Charms? Arithmancy? All of them required magic, and she couldn't use it, except in the most feeble of ways.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," she whispered, pointing her wand at the book. The cover flapped halfheartedly and fell closed again. Her eyes began to sting, filling with tears yet again. She wondered if she could regain her magical ability if she was so filled with despair over losing it. Was that why some people lost it permanently? Did they become stuck in a catch-22, unable to recover because their very means of recovery had shattered them so?

0 0 0

It was Severus who found her, although she didn't know it right away. He thought of the library almost immediately and headed there at once, leaving the other Professors to search the rest of the castle.

He was rewarded by the sight of a bushy head of hair bent over a large, heavy book. Trust Hermione to run to the library the moment she was left unsupervised, even in the face of direct orders to remain in bed. He should have known better than to let her leave without at least setting a House-Elf to keep an eye on her.

He drew into the shadows, lingering behind a shelf and watching her. She closed the book and pointed her wand at it, whispering something that made the cover jump up and then fall closed. A levitation charm, perhaps? Whatever it was, it had clearly failed to achieve what she hoped it would, for she cast her wand aside and stared at it so disconsolately that he felt sure she would burst into hysterical tears at any moment.

However, she remained quiet, looking down at the book without moving. Long minutes passed, and as Severus observed her, his anger with her for sneaking out of bed slowly began to drain away. It was not, after all, incredibly surprising that she would run to a place that had given her solace and comfort before. Hermione's obsession with the library had become something of a byword amongst the professors, even those not deeply concerned with or interested in her.

It was already difficult to remember what it had been like before this bizarre, pathetic drama had begun. She no longer appeared to him as the same buck-toothed, compulsive hand waver who had made his classes a living hell. That was some other girl, it was not this grief-worn young woman that he watched from afar.

But her lower lip was beginning to tremble and her shoulders to shake, and he could not bear to see any more of her tears. He emerged from the shadows.

"Hermione," he said gravely. She started, looking guiltily up at him.

"Professor Snape," she said.

He attempted to muster up some of his former annoyance with her. "You were told not to leave your bed."

Abashed, she bit her lip. "I didn't think it would do any harm for me to come down here. I'm still resting."

"Five points from Gryffindor for disobedience of direct instructions from your professor and the school matron. And," he said, "for not informing an adult of your whereabouts. We have been searching the castle for you."

She blushed deeply. "I'm sorry, sir. I had no idea that anybody would come looking for me, and I—" she faltered. "I just wanted to… understand better what's happened to me."

His eyes flickered down to the book that lay on the table in front of her. "And have you found what you were seeking?"

"I think so, sir. It—it isn't so bad as I thought it was, I suppose. But I'm scared." She hesitated, clearly unable to decide whether or not to continue. "What if it never comes back?" she whispered.

He looked down at her gravely. "Then you will find new ways to cope, and you will go on. However, I do not believe that you have anything to fear."

"I can't help being afraid."

"Perhaps not, but you must continue forward in spite of that."

"What will I do if Dr—if _he_ comes after me again? I can't protect myself." There was a note of hysteria creeping into her voice, and he sighed. Apparently it would fall to him to tell her, then.

"I do not think that will happen, Hermione."

"But why not? What's going to stop him?"

"He has already been… stopped."

She looked at him with an odd mingling of hope and fear on her face. "What do you mean?"

"Draco is my godson—or he was, until very recently. As such, it was my duty to… discuss the matter with him." He raised a hand to forestall her exclamation of dismay. "Rest assured, I did not reveal to him that it was you who alerted me to the situation. He does not know that you came forward. He has been punished, the Headmistress has been alerted, and he has been expelled. The school rules are very clear on this. There was no other course of action to take."

She bit her lip. "I—"

"Hermione," he said sharply, "as your professor, I forbid you to feel remorse over the punishment that another student has received for breaking not only school rules, but Ministry _and_ Muggle law. He has been punished, he has been expelled, and he is awaiting the arrival of the Aurors who will take him to Azkaban. There will be no further discussion of the subject."

She lowered her eyes. "Yes, sir."

He frowned. He supposed he couldn't legitimately forbid her to feel something, but he could certainly try.

"You will return to Gryffindor tower. You should not be out of bed."

"Yes, sir," she repeated. "May I—do you think Madame Pomfrey would mind terribly much if I went to the Great Hall for dinner? It's Christmas, and I don't want to be alone all day."

Yet again, he felt a pang of sadness and regret. Damn, damn, _damn_ this forced empathy that pulled at him, that forced him to feel her feelings, to understand her misery and isolation.

"I will discuss it with Madame Pomfrey. Come. I will assist you."

"I don't need help."

"Nevertheless, it is I who will be admonished if you are seen returning to your bed without my aid." He extended his hand to her, palm upwards, and after a moment's hesitation she took it and allowed him to help her from the chair.

If he did not let go _quite_ as immediately as he should have, it was purely by accident.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Of course, I couldn't help showing Draco's punishment. I hope the timeline on this is clear--he actually sent Hermione out of the hospital wing _before_ he went after Draco, in order to make sure that she wasn't still there when Madame Pomfrey brought Draco in.

I think at this point, Snape might launch a personal campaign to get Dementors back into Azkaban.

Many, many thanks to Renita, Harmony, and JunoMagic, for ideas, suggestions, and encouragement. Thanks also to all my readers and reviewers. I am absolutely staggered by the huge response to the last chapter. You guys are awesome. You keep me going.


	41. Crowned With the Joy of Heaven

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 41: Crowned With the Joy of Heaven**

* * *

Severus was distinctly aware of the disapproving gaze of the Fat Lady as Hermione gave the password that would allow them into Gryffindor tower. He'd made a point of avoiding this particular part of the castle for over twenty years. The Fat Lady, apparently, had not forgotten him any more than he'd forgotten her, and swung open to admit them to the tower with utmost reluctance.

He took Hermione's arm, assisting her through the portrait hall and into the Common Room. He should have just called Minerva and had her do it instead of merely alerting her by Patronus that the girl was found. What was he thinking, escorting her up here himself?

Two Gryffindor first years had stayed at school for the holiday, and were hanging about in the Common Room. As Severus followed Hermione through the portrait hole and into the room, whatever banal conversation they'd been having ceased immediately. Nearly Headless Nick was there was well, hovering genially over the first years and apparently advising them on chess strategy. Every eye, living, dead, and painted, was on Severus. He was acutely conscious that he did not belong there.

He escorted her to the stairs, where she stopped hesitantly.

"I can go the rest of the way on my own, sir."

"I cannot allow you to do that, Miss Granger," he said in a low voice, hoping that the other students could not hear their exchange. Reluctant as he was to accompany her any further, Minerva would have his head if he didn't literally _see_ her safely back to her bed. "It would be remiss of me as your professor and as your--" her _what_? He was nothing but her professor. Not her protector. Not her champion. Not even her Head of House. "That is to say, given the nature of our… relationship."

He could not meet her eyes, couldn't even bring himself to look at her face, so he had no idea what she might be thinking. He filled the time with internally berating himself for stumbling all over something he should not even have attempted to say.

"The stairs won't let you up."

He lifted one eyebrow. "I am a professor at this school. The enchantment will not keep me out."

"I can go by myself. I'm not broken," she said irritably.

"Indeed you are not," he answered, taking her by the arm again and firmly beginning to guide her up the stairs, acutely aware of their audience and acutely in need of escaping it. "Nor did I suggest that you were. However, broken or not, you have been through an ordeal. You were instructed to rest. You did not follow those instructions. Now you will reap the consequences, and I will escort you _all_ the way back to your dormitory, until I have satisfied myself and Headmistress McGonagall that you are exactly where you were told to be."

He didn't let go of her again until they'd reached the seventh year girls' dormitory. Careful not to actually look at anything, Severus relinquished his grip on her arm, standing in the doorway and gazing neutrally at a particularly boring bit of carpet.

"Are you going to tuck me in, too?" she said sarcastically.

"I think not," he mused, "and I suggest that you find someone else to hone your newly acquired wit upon. I am, as of yet, still out of your league."

With more noise than was strictly necessary, she drew back the blankets on what he assumed was her bed and dropped her body unceremoniously onto it. Tugging the blankets up over her shoulders, she lay down on her side, with her back to him.

Severus looked at her for a moment, and then picked up the long, thin piece of wood sitting atop the dresser that he assumed to be hers.

"Your wand," he said quietly, "should never be out of arm's reach, even when you are asleep."

"What difference does it make where my wand is?" she asked bitterly, not moving. He looked down at it, feeling the familiar tingle in his fingers that reminded him so much of his _own_ wand.

"Don't be foolish."

"I'm being realistic."

He snorted. "A realistic person would not get sorted into Gryffindor. Take your wand, and put it somewhere appropriate. You own it for a reason."

"I used to."

Severus wondered for a moment if his mother had ever had this conversation with someone—if she'd ever even had the opportunity to have it with someone. He could not imagine Tobias Snape bearing with much complaint over such a matter. He looked at her uncomfortably. He ought to just put the wand down next to her and get out.

"This behavior is unseemly, Hermione. Wallowing in self-pity will get you nowhere."

"I am _not_ wallowing in self-pity," she said rebelliously.

"I beg your pardon. I must have somehow mistaken your perfectly genial behavior for adolescent angst."

She sat up, looking at him in disbelief. "_Adolescent angst_?"

He knew he should have left sooner, rather than lingering and putting his foot in things. Unfortunately, the moment had long since passed when he could simply dock her a few house points and sweep angrily out of the room. He'd addressed her without the formality reserved for professor-student relationships and now he had to pay the price and find some other way to extricate himself from the conversation.

Damn her to hell.

"Take the wand, Miss Granger," he growled, walking forward and holding it out to her. She snatched it out of his hands.

"Thank you, _Professor_," she replied with an excess of politeness, placing the wand on her beside table, exactly at arm's length.

"As to Christmas dinner," he said stiffly, "I shall take the matter up with Madame Pomfrey."

"Thank you, sir."

"Miss Granger, if you leave this room again without informing a professor, you will receive a detention."

She lay down again, once more hiding her face from him. "I consider myself duly warned."

How, exactly, had he got himself into this situation? Looking at her thin, angular shoulders, he was uncomfortably aware that he was very close to crossing the line over into cruelty, if he hadn't done so already. Downgrading her legitimate grief into some sort of childish fit of pique was hardly a kind thing to do.

"You will forgive me," he muttered, "for losing my temper. It is unsafe for you to wander the halls and corridors alone, injured as you are. I believed that you understood that. Clearly, I was wrong."

She said nothing, didn't even move, and Severus rolled his eyes. If she was determined to be unpleasant, then he would waste no more energy on attempting to be conciliatory.

"Did you just apologize to me?" she said very quietly, just as he reached the door.

He stopped, his hand on the door handle. "No. I did not."

"Then why will I forgive you?"

He turned the handle and pulled the door open.

"Because you know I am right, Miss Granger."

0 0 0

In the Hospital Wing of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a young blond man with a pointed, scarred face lay prone on the only occupied bed in the ward. Beside him stood another man, pale and thin and dark. He gazed down at the bed, his face a blank mask.

"Severus," said a voice from the door. He looked up, knitting his eyebrows together.

"Minerva." He reached one hand up to cup the side of his neck and turned his attention back to the young man in the bed. Rubbing his neck meditatively, he stared down. The woman at the door approached them, but Severus Snape did not move or acknowledge her again.

"Poppy says there will be no lasting damage," he said finally, his voice strained. "Beyond scarring—it was all I intended, to leave him with the same scars that he left on her."

Headmistress McGonagall pursed her lips. "It was badly done, Severus."

"I know," he whispered.

"Why, then?"

He turned to her, and though his face remained an impassive mask, his eyes were dark and tortured. "I cannot say, Minerva. I—would do it again, were the circumstances the same."

She frowned. "What were you _thinking_, Severus? I have excused it, because he _is_ your godson—he was, at any rate. I know you're not a pureblood, but your relationship with Draco has always fallen within those bounds, and you were within your rights—"

"I do not _know_ what I was thinking!" he said, his voice agonized. "I cannot justify myself, pureblood traditions or not. Even in my darkest days, I have not—It has been a very long time since I deliberately sought to revenge myself on someone, particularly not someone who…" he trailed off, sinking into a chair beside the bed and reaching out to touch the young man's forehead. "I have loved and protected him as my son, Minerva. I was willing to die for him, in the final Battle. And yet, now--"

"Now you have assumed the role of Hermione Granger's protector, and not his."

"I have done no such thing."

"I would be more inclined to believe you if I had not just returned from Australia after having rushed there without a moment's thought or hesitation to rescue her."

"I saw it," he said hoarsely. "And I cannot stop seeing it."

She looked at him in consternation. "You saw what?"

"I watched through her eyes, Minerva. I felt it through her body. Through her memories. As if it were I, myself, who was—and I cannot forget."

"Severus," she said slowly, "you saw what?"

"When Poppy examined her, it was… most unsettling."

"You saw what Draco did to her?"

He did not speak. Perhaps he could not. He simply gazed at the limp body on the bed, watching the chest rise and fall quickly and shallowly.

The Headmistress placed her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged restively, but she didn't move it and he didn't protest further. "How long have I known you?" she said softly.

"Since I was eleven."

"And now you're a man grown. We should have watched over you better in those days. You don't know how often I've regretted it."

"It was not your place to watch over me, Minerva. I was not in your House."

"You were my student," she said passionately, though her voice was still low. "What do I care about Houses?"

"I—perhaps I should go with the Aurors as well."

"The moment they know you were his godfather, they won't punish you. The Ministry still recognizes the old traditions."

"I am not a pureblood."

"You entered into a pureblood ritual, with a pureblood family. The precedents are there. Even if you weren't a war hero, they wouldn't prosecute."

He snorted. "War hero indeed. I am a killer of men and a torturer of children."

"Draco Malfoy is not a child, Severus."

"He was in my eyes."

She smiled tightly. "And thus, perhaps, even more of a disappointment because you still cling to hopes of his innocence?"

"Perhaps. It does not justify—"

"No," she said sharply, "it does not, but in the eyes of the law—"

"I do not care for the eyes of the law! In the eyes of the law, I am guilty of Albus' murder and not guilty of an unprovoked attack on Draco Malfoy. I did not murder Albus, Minerva, and I tortured a mere—my godson, for Merlin's sake."

Minerva hesitated. "Are you in love with her, Severus?"

A stranger entering the room might have mistaken him for a wax statue, so completely still did he become at those words. Even the harsh sound of his breathing ceased.

"I am not," he whispered at length. "Don't be absurd."

"Then why this reaction? Why take it so much to heart, what he did to her?" She pulled out her wand and summoned a chair, lowering herself stiffly into it. "Believe me," she said grimly, "I know we are not meant to play favorites among our students, Severus, but Hermione has been—she is very dear to me. Malfoy will be expelled, and if I have my way he will languish in Azkaban for the rest of his miserable life. But there's never been any love lost between the two of you in the past, and to punish him so… violently. Why?"

"It was not Miss Granger that I was concerned with."

"Rubbish," she snapped. "If the victim were anybody else, anybody for whom you had _not_ just risked your life, and with whom your soul was _not_ irrevocably connected, I don't believe for a moment that we would be having this discussion, because it would never have happened."

He groaned softly. "I was inside of her body, Minerva, as clearly as if it were happening in that moment. You cannot know, it was—"

"Terrible," she murmured. "I'm sure it was. But oh, Severus, to attack him in cold blood like that."

He lowered his head, burying it in his hands. "You should fire me. I have betrayed the trust that the school has placed in me—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus. I won't fire you."

"Perhaps I shall resign then."

"You'll do nothing of the sort. You're the finest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've had since Galatea Merrythought went senile."

"A retired Death Eater who maims his students?"

"A passionate defender of justice who acted on impulse when he witnessed and suffered an unthinkable violation."

He laughed hollowly. "Would you justify me to myself?"

She squeezed his shoulder gently. "I do not know if I would have been capable of acting differently, were I in your place."

"How will I tell his mother?"

"Narcissa? When would you have the opportunity to even discuss it?"

"I have petitioned Kingsley to release her to house arrest. I do not believe he will deny me, given Potter's testimony as regards her actions during the final Battle. Were it not for her, he could very well have been killed."

"Do you think that's wise?"

He sighed, waving one hand in the direction of his former godson. "Do not ask me what is wise, Minerva. I am hardly an authority."

She stood up slowly, her joints creaking as she did. "I'm getting too old," she muttered. "Do you suppose we can ask the Death Eaters to turn themselves in for the sake of my sore back?"

His lip quirked slightly. "I doubt they would feel that was a valid reason."

"I shall draft a letter to them and hope for the best. Will you be joining us at dinner, or do you intend to remain here until the Aurors arrive?"

"I have not decided." He sighed heavily. "He never expected me to do such a thing. He expected me to protect him."

"Then let us hope that you have jarred him out of his complacency enough that he finally considers whether he ought to change."

"Let us hope."

The Headmistress removed a small, nondescript ring from her finger and tapped it once with her wand, transfiguring it into a cane, on which she leaned heavily. "I don't know when it happened," she said thoughtfully, "but I seem to have become old, Severus."

"I understand."

"I believe you do," she said sadly before she retired and left him alone with his thoughts.

The dark-haired man leaned back in his chair and gazed at his godson. He sat for an hour never moving, and then finally leaned forward and rested his palm on the young man's scarred forehead.

"Only God knows how much I loved you, Draco," he murmured regretfully.

0 0 0

Madame Pomfrey sent a House-Elf to give word that Hermione had permission to have dinner in the Great Hall. Accordingly, she put her hair up, put her shoes on, and made her way (slowly, as instructed) down from the tower.

All of the tables had been removed except for one, which sat in the center of the Hall. Hermione took a seat beside Professor Sprout. Two other Gryffindors were there, as well as one first-year Slytherin. Hermione and Draco, it seemed, were the only older students who had stayed, and Draco was nowhere to be seen.

The moment she sat down, it was obvious to Hermione that all of the professors had heard about what happened in Australia. She'd expected perhaps a few questions about why she left school early—maybe a comment on the fact that she'd returned after putting it about publicly with Harry that she'd be at Grimmauld Place. Instead, they said nothing. Other than a few sympathetic glances and pat on the arm from Professor Sprout, they resolutely ignored the subject altogether.

Professor Snape arrived several minutes after she did.

"Severus!" said Professor McGonagall cheerfully. "So glad that you decided to join us. Do take a seat, we've only just begun."

Professor Snape surveyed the table silently. He did not look at Hermione. In fact, he was so careful not to look at her that it made her feel sure that everybody else had noticed him not looking. He chose a seat at the opposite end of the table, as far from her as possible. Immediately after he was settled, he lowered his head over his plate so that his hair fell forward, obscuring his face from her view completely.

Hermione, who had been expecting at least some sort of reprimand or dirty look after the way she'd spoken to him earlier, frowned. He was not being antisocial in particular. In fact, he seemed to have entered into a rather lively conversation about Quidditch with Madam Hooch and Professor Flitwick, who was making his fork and knife zoom through the air in imitation of brooms. He was simply ignoring her.

It was galling. Not that she should care. Not that she _did_ care. This was what she had expected from him, after all. Professor Snape made an art form out of maintaining aloof silences, and he'd barely spoken a word to her all term, until he showed up in Australia.

But Australia had changed so many things. Instead of being distant and cold he'd been almost talkative, sharing things with her that seemed intensely private.

Professor McGonagall leaned across the table. "You ought to eat something," she said quietly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, thank you." She broke off a small piece of bread and nibbled on it halfheartedly.

"After dinner, I'd like to speak with you privately. As Madame Pomfrey feels that you ought to be resting as much as possible, I'll escort you back to your dormitory. We can talk there."

Hermione glanced over at Professor Snape. He was still not looking at her. In fact, if it wasn't so obviously deliberate that he had failed to look in her direction even once, she'd have thought he didn't realize she was there at all. "Yes, Professor," she said softly.

Professor McGonagall looked down the table, watching with a rather amused expression as Professor Flitwick's fork narrowly avoided embedding itself in the side of Madam Hooch's head.

Hermione resumed poking halfheartedly at her dinner, looking around occasionally when a Christmas cracker exploded with a particularly loud bang. In spite of what she'd told Harry, and in spite of the fact that she _was_ glad to be around other people, joining the rest of the school for dinner only made her feel more alone. She was cut off from them all by her grief, as completely as if there were a physical wall between them. Nobody wished to intrude, and so nobody spoke to her at all, and she was too tired to reach across the boundary.

It was a strange, that being surrounded by happy, celebratory people only made her feel more alone.

0 0 0

Severus forced himself to pay attention to Hooch and Filius. No matter how many times he reminded himself that the flying instructor's name was Rolanda, he was never going to be able to think of her by her first name.

Occasionally, he interjected his own comments on Quidditch tactics and the most recent exploits of various teams. Mostly, he focused his attention on ignoring Hermione—Miss Granger. He should never have let himself think of her by her first name. He'd planned all along to tell her of the enchantment only for the sake of working out some way that they could mutually aid one another in staying apart.

How that had led to a trip halfway around the world, intensely private conversations about her history with Draco and his mother's life story, and arguments _in her bedroom_, he could not fathom.

Across the room, Minerva was saying something to the girl. If anything, this was Minerva's fault. How dare she ask him if he was in love with her? As if he would or even could fall in love with a student. He scowled at his plate darkly, causing Hooch to assume he disagreed with her opinion of the Chudley Cannons and launch into an extended tirade in their defense.

It was amazing, the way that she could be seated all the way at the other end of a long table full of laughing, shouting people and yet he could be so perfectly aware of her presence. He could feel her there, knew exactly where she was as definitely as if he was staring directly at her.

As soon as he could do so without offending anyone _too_ much, Severus stood up. Careful not to look at Miss Granger's face, he crossed the room, bent over Minerva's shoulder and murmured in her ear, "We must talk, Minerva. There is still more of which you must be informed."

She frowned , turning her head in his direction slightly. "On the same subject as the rest?" she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. It took all of his willpower not to look across the table at Miss Granger.

"The source of the information is the same. The subject matter is not. I believe that you must call an emergency meeting of the Order."

"Tonight?"

He considered this. Percy Weasley could only have become a Death Eater before the Battle, which meant that they'd sat on the information and kept it hidden for six months, without obvious mishap. "It need not be tonight. I would not delay long, however."

"Very well. In that case, I will be escorting Miss Granger to her dormitory and talking over a few things with her. Meet me in my office at nine o'clock. We'll discuss it then."

Across the table, he could feel her, knew that her eyes were on him. Not for the first time, he was very glad of the thick hair that fell around him, obscuring his face from her. "I will be there, Minerva."

She drew back from him a fraction, giving him a thin smile. "Happy Christmas, Severus," she said, patting him on the arm. "Go do something seasonal, why don't you?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What do you suggest, Minerva? Perhaps a silly hat and a box of chocolates in front of the fire, whilst I delight over my myriad selection of Christmas gifts?"

She smirked slightly. "Don't be coy, Severus. You know very well that I sent you a lovely scarf in your House colors--which you, of course, will never wear. Your unwillingness to wear anything but black is hardly my fault, and I will continue to give them to you until you give in."

"Your unwillingness to give me anything other than the same scarf every year despite all indications that I will never wear it is hardly _my_ fault, Minerva," he retorted crisply. "I have seventeen identical scarves hanging in my closet. Perhaps I ought to begin making a habit of giving gifts to my seventh year Slytherins and thin them out a bit. If they get overgrown, the crop will never thrive."

She chuckled. "Go to your rooms and brood, then, if it will make you happier, but stop whispering in my ear, Severus. It's suspicious. People will say we're in love."

He sniffed derisively. "Very well, Minerva, if you insist on rebuffing my advances, I shall retreat to nurse the wounds of my heart."

She laughed aloud at that and, with a smirk, he retreated, congratulating himself on making it through the ordeal of dinner without once having so much as glanced at Hermione Granger.

0 0 0

Back in her dormitory, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and looked up at Professor McGonagall. Her former Head of House was gazing concernedly at her from the chair that she'd conjured.

Hermione said nothing, deciding instead to simply wait for the Headmistress to speak.

"It's very strange," she said eventually, "to see one of Professor Snape's expressions on your face."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

Professor McGonagall smiled faintly. "I don't think there was anything too difficult to understand about that, my dear."

"Yes, but—I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"I don't think it's something you need to apologize for. I doubt you can help it."

"Since I didn't even know I was doing it you're probably right, Professor." She bit her lip. "How long have you known about… the situation?

"Significantly longer than you have."

She looked down, frowning. "He waited a long time to tell me."

"Against my advice, and against Professor Dumbledore's."

"I guess I would have waited too, if I were him. It's not really the sort of thing you want to talk about."

"On the contrary, I imagine it probably _is_ the sort of thing one would want to talk about, in a typical situation. The problem, of course, is that yours is hardly a typical situation."

Hermione looked up at her desperately. "I just don't know what to _do_, Professor. I can't undo it. Neither can he. It's got to be horribly embarrassing for him, and I don't know how to begin to express how embarrassing it is for me."

Professor McGonagall nodded slowly. "I understand. However, this is not what I would have expected from you. If anything, I rather thought that I'd find you in the library, poring over every obscure reference to the enchantment that you might find. You might even have come up with a few positives about it by now."

"I've been thinking about other things."

"Of course you have. Just remember that when those things have become less immediate, this one will remain. You might consider what good could come out of it. Professor Snape is a distant and badly damaged man, but his loyalty, once won, will last a lifetime. When you are older, he would be a beneficial friend to have."

She had no idea how to react to that idea—it was completely foreign to her. To be friends with a professor? To be friends with Professor _Snape_?

"Friends, Professor?"

The older woman smiled. "As appropriately disconcerting as the idea is to you now, you will not be a student forever, and, as you already know, this situation will not resolve itself or go away. There's no way to know without attempting it how either of you would react to a prolonged separation. After spending a year in close company, you might find it more difficult than you think."

"I'm sure he'll do his best," she said.

"He might. We shall have to wait and see. However, the matter will keep for now, and we have other things to discuss. As much as I regret the fact, ignoring the events of the last week would be very unwise. I believe we ought to consider how you intend to deal with… the most recent developments."

Her heart sank. "Which do you mean, professor?"

"I'm afraid that Professor Snape has let loose your secret. We were very concerned when we didn't find you in your room. He told me what's happened to you. I believe he was afraid you might need to defend yourself and be unable to do so. For what it's worth, he _had_ planned to allow you to tell me yourself."

As angry as she was with him for telling Professor McGonagall what had happened, some honest part of her had to admit that she was somewhat relieved, as well. At least he'd done the difficult part for her.

"I don't know what to do," she said honestly. "I'm scared, and confused. I have no idea what I'm going to do when term starts. How will I make it through my classes? My grades are going to fall, and I'm going to fail all of my NEWTs, and I'm going to be a failure for the rest of my life, and—"

"I think that is quite enough, Hermione," interrupted Professor McGonagall. "I have discussed the matter with Madame Pomfrey, and it is my understanding that you have not lost _all_ of your ability to do magic?"

"Almost all."

"I see. Well, you will certainly be able to continue working with Professor Snape on Potions—at least on _theory_ of Potions, although it doesn't seem you'll be able to brew the more complicated ones. In fact, you'll be able to keep up with theory in all your classes, and I believe if you continue to practice proper wand movements in Charms and Transfiguration, you will not be too far behind when you regain some of your… strength."

"_If_ I regain it."

"I have very few doubts on that score, Hermione. You're young, and you are not suffering an ongoing trauma. This will pass, I assure you."

She looked up at her Headmistress in anguish. "How can you be sure? What if it doesn't? What if I never… get better?"

"I am firmly convinced that it is a scenario that will never come to pass, but even if it does--there will always be a place for you in our world, Hermione."

"That's what Professor Snape said."

"He was completely correct. I will explain your situation to the other professors. There are precedents. If you'd like, someone can escort you to St. Mungo's for a consultation."

"People are going to find out, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid that they will. I'm sure you are already alive to the possibility that you will be subjected to some unkind remarks from your fellow students. I wish you to know that we stand behind you all the way."

"Am I still going to be an Order member?"

She sniffed dismissively. "I see no reason to remove you from the Order because you are suffering from a temporary malady."

Hermione inched further back on her bed, until she could bring her feet up and rest her chin on her knees. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she stared across the room, her heart pounding anxiously in anticipation of her next question.

"Did Madame Pomfrey or Professor Snape tell you about my… about what—"

"About Draco?" asked Professor McGonagall gently. Both relieved and nauseated, Hermione nodded, closing her eyes.

"I have been informed. Draco has been punished, although in a manner far harsher than I can strictly say I approve of. He will be picked up by the Aurors shortly."

Again, she nodded, unable to speak.

"Do you think you might be willing to testify before the Wizengamot?"

"No."

"Hermione, it is very unlikely that he will be convicted without your testimony."

The nausea increased and she hugged her legs a little more tightly to her chest. "I _can't_," she whispered. "Not in front of them. Not in front of anybody."

"Professor Snape and Madame Pomfrey are both prepared to offer supporting testimony, but without a first-hand account—"

"Not even Harry and Ron know. I don't want people to know. They won't understand."

"I daresay that not all of them will, but some—"

She was perilously close to tears again, and irritated with herself for it. "Harry and Ron won't."

"Then I shall have words with them myself," said Professor McGonagall grimly. "Hermione, what happened to you was not your fault. It is imperative that you understand this. It was _not_ your fault. You were a victim of an attack."

One tear escaped her attempts at self-control, sending a hot trail of water down her cheek. "I should have been paying better attention. I should have been more v-vigilant." She sniffled loudly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Normally I could beat him in a duel any day, I just wasn't strong enough."

"You bear no responsibility for this. The fault is entirely his."

"Harry and Ron won't see it that way."

Professor McGonagall's expression grew exponentially more severe. "Then, to be coarse about it, bollocks to them. I am well aware of the tendency of teenage boys, especially in House Gryffindor, to be boorish and unkind. I know it isn't terribly comforting, but they are unworthy of you if they fail to understand."

"I'm the unworthy one."

"Patently false, as I hope you will come to see in due time."

She picked a bit of fluff off her knee, rolling it into a tight ball between her finger and thumb. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Do you—do you think that there's really life after death?"

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows went up so high that they almost disappeared beneath the brim of her hat. "You live in a castle full of ghosts, Hermione."

"What about for Muggles, though? Do you think that they… you know, that if Muggles die, we'll ever see them again?" She faltered over the words, the inevitable lump making itself known in her already sore throat once again.

"I see no evidence that life after death is connected intrinsically in any way to one's magical ability. In fact, I am convinced that it is not. Beauxbatons is haunted by a squib, you know. Perhaps Fleur could tell you about her sometime."

Slightly heartened, Hermione managed a small smile. "Maybe I'll ask her at the next Order meeting."

"I believe that you'll have the opportunity quite soon. Within the next few days, perhaps." Professor McGonagall smiled conspiratorially. "Would you perhaps like to get ahead of Professor Snape in the race to reveal one another's secrets? He's told me he got a piece of information from you that will require an emergency Order meeting. You've been robbed of your chance to tell me your two deepest secrets, but you've got one more, apparently, that is still yours to tell."

Hermione hesitated, biting her lip hard. "I--maybe he should tell you, Professor."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Did you learn some piece of information from Damien Wilkes?"

"No, Professor."

"Something in Australia?"

She studied the floor, feigning interest in it. "No, Professor."

"Hermione, it will do us no good to spend the rest of the evening here playing guessing games. Will you tell me, or shall I wait for my conference with Professor Snape?"

She moaned softly, burying her face in her hands. "I… can't."

Professor McGonagall nodded slowly. "Very well, then. I shall wait until I meet with Professor Snape tonight. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss before I go?"

She swallowed, forcing herself to lower her hands. "Yes, Professor."

"And?"

This was it. She had to say it. "I don't want to keep taking private lessons in Potions."

"I see. May I ask why not?"

"I… thought it would be obvious."

"It is obvious why you wish to stop. It is not so obvious why I should be convinced that it is a good idea."

"It's not appropriate, is it, Professor? And I don't think he likes me. He isn't comfortable around me at all. He's barely spoken to me all last term and now he's got even more reason to want to avoid me—"

"He presented many of the same reasons to me at the beginning of the term, and I still do not find them convincing. You are both circumspect enough that I have no fears about the propriety of your interactions. As for your personal feelings about one another, they are no more relevant now than they have ever been. He is your teacher. You are his student. Dislike between the two of you, if it actually does exist, concerns me not at all. You are too far ahead of the rest of your class to gain anything from Professor Slughorn's lessons."

"But after what happened in Australia—"

Professor McGonagall frowned. "What happened in Australia that would have any impact on your Potions lessons?"

"He saw—I—I killed Damien Wilkes."

"_You_ killed Damien Wilkes?"

"You… didn't know?"

"I did not. Professor Snape claimed that he was responsible, that he killed Wilkes in your defense."

"Oh." It took Hermione several minutes to make sense of that and get herself to understand what Professor McGonagall was really saying. But—they'd discussed it at the time, hadn't they? He'd said it would be kept a secret, that it was self-defense.

Only he hadn't ever mentioned _whose_ attack on Wilkes was being kept a secret.

"You believe that since he saw this, he will no longer wish to continue your training in Potions?"

"He can barely look at me."

Professor McGonagall looked surprised. "He has not given me the impression that his discomfort around you has anything to do with anything that transpired in Australia. It seems to me, in fact, he has become far more open with you than he was beforehand. Am I mistaken?"

Hermione thought of the months of lessons in which he'd barely opened his mouth from beginning to end. "I suppose not," she admitted grudgingly.

"That's settled, then. You will continue your Potions lessons with Professor Snape."

She hadn't been aware that it was settled, but she had no choice but accept the Headmistress' decision. She shrugged apathetically. "All right, Professor."

"I wish you to report to Madame Pomfrey in the morning. She will discuss the possibilities regarding your condition, and whether or not you wish to visit St. Mungo's."

"Yes, Professor."

The Headmistress got laboriously to her feet, leaning on her cane heavily, although she walked forward without a limp. Resting her hand gently atop Hermione's head, she sighed. "I have never been a particularly motherly woman, Hermione, and I would never presume to offer to take the place of someone so irreplaceable as your mother, but—if there is ever anything you need, my office door will always be open to you."

Before Hermione could answer, a silvery creature leapt into the room. The delicate silver doe pricked her ears at them and then opened her mouth, speaking in a voice so utterly incongruous with her appearance that Hermione actually drew back.

"You are required in your office, Minerva," said the doe in Professor Snape's deep, silky tone. "Draco Malfoy has disappeared."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Oh noes! Teh cliffhanger!

The chapter title comes from a Christmas poem and is, if you hadn't guessed, an exercise in irony.

Many thanks, as usual, to Juno, Renita and Harmony, dedicated encouragers and idea-bouncers, without whom this chapter would still be only a few hundred words long and languishing in a minimized window.

Thanks also to all who have reviewed and read in the last few days. Sorry this update took a little longer than usual. I've been ill, again.


	42. Falling Further In

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 42: Falling Further In**

* * *

"What's happened?" said Minerva urgently, before she was even all the way through the door into her office. Severus, who'd been speaking with Kingsley Shacklebolt, turned to her. 

"Apparently," he replied, his dry tone hiding nowhere near as much of his dismay as he would have liked it to, "the Aurors were set upon shortly after leaving the school, and Malfoy was removed from their company."

"They must have had inside information," said Kingsley slowly. He'd aged a great deal in the last six months. Severus couldn't say he was surprised by it. Running the Ministry would be bad enough if things were normal (whatever 'normal' meant in Wizarding Britain). He didn't care to imagine what it was like to run the Ministry while overseeing such a vast array of reform projects and weeding-out of ineffective or untrustworthy bureaucrats.

Minerva looked incredibly put out. "Aurors? I wasn't aware that they'd even arrived."

"Nor was I," said Severus, shrugging.

Poppy, who was looking out the window, turned around, her face pinched and anxious. "That makes three of us, then."

Minerva crossed the room to her desk and sat down. "Winky!" she said loudly. A somewhat bedraggled looking House-Elf appeared with a loud _crack_, swaying slightly on her feet.

"You is calling on Winky, Headmistress?" she squeaked. She was in clothes—certainly odd, for a House-Elf, though he'd seen stranger things in the Hogwarts kitchens. Those clothes, however, were grubby and ill cared-for, somewhat more unusual for a House-Elf.

"Fetch Argus Filch to the office at once—and bring a pot of tea, will you?"

With a nod, a curtsey, and another _crack_, the House-Elf disapparated. He quirked an eyebrow, looking at the spot where she'd been standing.

"Do _we_ employ that elf?"

Minerva shrugged. "Ask Dumbledore about it if you're curious. I've been trying to draw her out. She's been rather depressed."

"Evidently."

She waved her hand impatiently in the air. "I don't care about Winky at the moment, Severus. We'll discuss it another time, if you're genuinely interested, which I suspect you are not. Kingsley, who was meant to be collecting Malfoy?"

"Finnigan and Dawlish."

"_Dawlish_? Oh for heaven's sake, Kingsley, don't tell me that you've still been allowing Dawlish on active duty. The man's brains are addled, no thanks to Dumbledore—"

"I must say," interjected the Dumbledore's portrait mildly, "that I feel I had no other viable options at the time, and I have always expressed my great regret at being forced to Confund him."

"Twice."

"As you say. Twice. My statement still stands."

She grimaced. "Regardless, I can't say I'm surprised there was a mishap if Dawlish was involved—"

Kingsley frowned. "Minerva, the strain on the Aurory is such that we can't get rid of _anyone_ who is not blatantly untrustworthy—"

"And Dawlish _isn't_?"

"--In the sense of being openly linked to the Dark Arts," he continued unflappably. "Dawlish did achieve 'Outstanding' in all of his NEWTs, even if he has since become somewhat unpredictable. I dislike the situation as much as you do, but the Ministry's ranks were severely depleted, and it will be several more months before the next group of recruits is ready to be sent out on actual missions. All of our best Aurors are in Australia chasing down Wilkes' co-conspirators, and we had no information that Malfoy would be of any particular interest to rogue Death Eaters in Britain."

Severus removed the smallest pinch of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantel and tossed it idly into the fire, watching it flash green for a moment. "And thus we learn that there is nothing new under the sun, including Ministry regimes."

"Uncalled for, Severus," snapped Minerva, turning on Severus as soon as he presented himself as a better target than Shacklebolt. "You know very well that Kingsley has done the best he can with very few resources. Now, Poppy, I'd like to know exactly what happened, as far as you know—from the very beginning."

Poppy glanced at Severus and then sighed, reaching up and removing her cap, which she immediately began to twist back and forth in her hands.

"Severus alerted me this morning that young Malfoy had been… injured… and asked me to transport him to the Hospital Wing. I collected him, treated his injuries, and sedated him. In the meantime, I am given to believe that either Severus or Minerva contacted the Ministry," she gave Kingsley a quick nod, "and informed them that Malfoy needed to be arrested."

"For reasons that I have yet to hear, Minerva," interjected Kingsley. "I presume that you will be sharing them with me?"

"I _intended_ to give them to the Aurors before they left the school with the boy."

"Which, obviously, you did not," said Severus, "so it is, for the moment, irrelevant. Poppy, continue."

Minerva shot him a dirty look and Kingsley a longsuffering one. Poppy simply closed her eyes and kept talking.

"Given that Malfoy was given not only a high dose of Blood-Replenishing Potion but also the strongest sedative that I have on the ward short of the Draught of Sleeping Death, I'm afraid that I didn't have a very strict watch on him. There's no possible way he could have got up and left on his own. As far as I know, there isn't any student within the school at the moment who even knew he'd been injured, or who would help him get away even if they did."

"As far as you know?"

Severus nudged a log a little deeper into the fire with the toe of his boot. "She's quite correct, Kingsley. There are practically no students here for the holiday, and none of those who are bear any love for Draco Malfoy."

"Quite so," said Poppy, looking somewhat heartened. "As I was saying, I didn't have a very strict watch on him, so when young Geoffrey Forster took that spill in the Entrance Hall, I simply left Malfoy where he was and went downstairs to see to the Forster boy. And incidentally," she said, as the door opened once more and Argus Filch slouched in, "you ought to see to it, Minerva, that someone keeps those floors dry. We can't have all this snow being tracked in and allowed to melt. Stone floors get slippery when they're wet and dislocated hips are easy enough to set but very painful. He's going to be limping for weeks."

"You were in the Entrance Hall then?" asked Minerva, nodding curtly at Filch, who sidled into a corner and stationed himself there with a sour expression on his face.

"I started there. I took the boy up to Ravenclaw tower."

"Not to the hospital wing?" asked Kingsley.

She looked levelly at him, meeting his eye and holding it until he looked away. It never ceased to amaze Severus how she could be so small and motherly, and then turn around and stare even the Minister of Magic down. Molly Weasley, he'd noticed, had the same talent.

"Not to the hospital wing, Minister, no," she said, "given… who else was there." She glanced at Filch again, rather sourly, evidently deeming the information too sensitive for his ears. "Given that the injury required only analgesics and bed rest once I'd set the joint, I thought it would be better for all involved to simply settle the boy in his own bed."

"And then?"

"And then when I returned to the Hospital Wing, I found it empty and came here immediately to alert the Headmistress."

"Unfortunately," said Severus, "she was not here. Madame Pomfrey found me instead, waiting for you, and I, as you know, alerted you via Patronus as soon as I understood what had happened.."

Kingsley walked over to the fireplace, leaning his arm on the mantel and watching the flames. "That leaves several possibilities. Surely the wards you put up would have detected a Death Eater, Severus? That was the very thing they were designed for, after all."

Severus straightened the cuffs of his sleeves until they were meticulously even. "The wards are keyed specifically to those who bear the Dark Mark. The Mark's strength has diminished severely since the fall of the Dark Lord, however, and the wards have also been altered slightly to allow… certain people to pass through them unhindered."

Minerva and Kingsley both glanced at his arm. Poppy, who had seen his Mark enough times to no longer give it any consideration, didn't react, which was a small mercy, at least. He rubbed it instinctively.

"So it couldn't have been a Death Eater," said Minerva, with a look of relief.

He felt his lip twist into the habitual sneer that crept onto his face of its own accord every time one of his fellow professors stated something that was simultaneously blatantly obvious and completely asinine. "Are you certain of that?"

"Severus, I am in no mood for this sort of—"

"If Dawlish was in the party, there was no need for a Death Eater to enter the grounds of the school. The man is a walking target for the Imperius Curse."

"It _is_ possible," said Kingsley unwillingly after a moment.

He bowed. "It is a comfort to know that our new Minister for Magic is not utterly foolish."

"Madame Pomfrey," said Kingsley, politely ignoring Severus' last comment, "Let us return to you. How long were you with the Ravenclaw boy?"

"Almost an hour. The first year boys' bedroom in Ravenclaw tower was in an _appalling_ state. They'd been doing some sort of experiment on the effects of weather on magic and, if you please, it meant that all windows had to be left open at all hours. Absolutely freezing, of course, and the floors all soaking wet. I can't be expected to leave an injured student in a room like that."

"No, Poppy," said Minerva, taking off her spectacles and rubbing her eyes, "of course you can't. So, you left Draco alone for an hour and, when you returned, he was gone."

"Precisely."

"Argus."

Filch seemed to have been waiting for this very moment, and he lurched forward sycophantically, bobbing his head. "Yes, Headmistress?" he wheezed.

"You are in charge of logging the names of all those who enter the school without using force or artifice."

He licked his chapped lips enthusiastically. "I am," he said, looking disgustingly self-important.

"Did two Aurors come to the school today?"

Filch reached into his jacket and pulled out a grubby notebook. Licking one of his fingers, he pressed it against the top of the book, leaving a wet fingerprint as he peeled the page away and began to flip through to the most recent entries.

"Padraic Finnigan and Mathurin Dawlish," he said, pressing one blackened fingernail to the page where their names had been scrawled.

"And they left?"

"Oh, they left, Headmistress. Had young Mr. Malfoy with 'em, as well."

"Malfoy? And what condition would you say he was in?" asked Minerva sharply, fixing him with her eye. Filch shrugged.

"Paler than usual. Looked like he might be ill."

"And you didn't question them about why they were removing him?"

He looked offended and picked Mrs. Norris up from the floor, stroking her with a distinctly aggrieved air. "Of course I did. Taking him to Azkaban to await trial. Had all the papers in order, didn't they, precious?" he said. Severus devoutly hoped that he was addressing the cat. "Signed by you and all, Headmistress. What's he done, eh?"

"I do not believe that it is anything you need to be informed of," she said repressively. "Around what time was this?"

"Oh, forty, maybe forty-five minutes ago, wasn't it, my love?" he crooned. The cat ignored him and instead stared at Severus. He looked away. Filch and Mrs. Norris were useful in tracking errant students, but it didn't mean he had to like being around them in any other context. He had a feeling they'd be just as happy to spy on _him_, should the opportunity present itself.

"Thank you, Mr. Filch. I believe that will be all. You are excused. Please see to it that the floors in the Entrance Hall are kept dry, would you? I'd prefer we don't have any more students injuring themselves."

He bobbed his head deferentially and left. Once they'd all watched him go, Kingsley cleared his throat.

"Well, that helps us establish the timeline a bit more firmly. They left the school some forty-five minutes ago. And you discovered they were missing—"

"About half an hour ago, now," said Poppy promptly. Kingsley nodded.

"And, also half an hour ago, Finnigan and Dawlish arrived at the Ministry… without Mr. Malfoy."

Minerva scowled. "And what did they have to say for themselves?"

"Finnigan was Stupefied from behind and Dawlish was attacked by someone in a mask. They claim to have no idea who it was. Next thing they knew, Malfoy was gone and they Apparated back to the Ministry."

"Severus, have you any idea who it might have been?"

He shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "I have not. Although, happily, the list of possible perpetrators is narrowed down considerably from what it was before the Battle, and before the Aurors so helpfully began picking up or scaring away renegade Death Eaters. The number of them left in the country has been steadily dwindling."

"Are they likely to have gone to Malfoy Manor, do you think?"

He lifted one eyebrow. "I think not. Even Malfoy is not that much of a fool."

"You're his godfather," said Kingsley. The tracking spell—"

"Unfortunately, Minister, I am no longer his godfather. I performed the Sundering Ceremony early this morning. It resulted, I am afraid, in his confinement to the Hospital Wing."

Kingsley didn't bother to hide his look of surprise. "You disowned him? What's he _done_?"

Poppy and Severus looked to Minerva, who cleared her throat unhappily. "We have firm evidence and first-hand testimony that he raped and seriously injured a fellow student two years ago, and attacked her again while in Hogsmeade less than a month ago, with the same intent. That this student is also now a known member of the Order arguably elevates the more recent crime to one of war and not merely one of brutality."

"A Hogwarts student also in the Order?" mused Kingsley. "Was it Miss Weasley, Miss Lovegood, or Miss Granger?"

"Miss Granger."

Kingsley's face was unreadable. "I confess, that is the last of the three I would have anticipated. My guess was Luna Lovegood—although, she is not yet an officially sworn-in member."

"Understandable guess, I suppose. But no, it was Miss Granger. He happened upon her shortly after the Battle at the Ministry. You're already aware of the injuries she sustained there."

"Is she willing to testify?"

"Not at this time, but we hope to prevail on her to change her mind. How difficult would it be for you to arrange for a closed trial before the Wizengamot? Her primary concern is for her privacy, of course. The fewer people who will know that it was she who was attacked, the more likely I think she will be to testify against him."

"I assure you, I will begin to make inquiries in the Wizengamot immediately," said Kingsley gravely. "I must go and see to Dawlish and Finnigan. Inform Padraic's brother that he'll be in St. Mungo's for a day or two under observation. He took a nasty blow to the head when he fell."

"He's at home with his parents. I'll owl them."

"Thank you, Minerva."

Poppy coughed unhappily. She was, Severus noticed, still twisting her hat, which had become an unrecognizable mass of wrinkles at this point. "Before you go, Minister, I'd like to apologize for my lack of vigilance. It was… well, it was quite unforgivable."

Minerva shook her head. "The fault is mine, Poppy, if anyone's. I didn't anticipate this either. We both believed that the Hospital Wing would be adequate as it was."

"We seem once again to have fallen into the trap of assuming that the school is more secure than it is," said Severus dryly. "I believed Draco's Death Eater connections were maintained only through his father and, I confess, I had hoped that he was merely acting on his own, and not in alliance with any others."

"I will repeat, as Headmistress, the final responsibility lies with me. I shall let the Board of Governors know what has happened and put forth another proposal for increased security. Now, Kingsley, there's Floo powder on the mantel. Oh, and also--I'm giving you advance warning now that I will be calling an emergency meeting of the Order. Clear a few hours from your schedule tomorrow."

He paused, already holding a handful of the glittering green powder. "In regard to Malfoy?"

Minerva and Severus exchanged a look. Some part of him confessed inwardly to being rather flattered that she'd call the meeting based on his word alone, without first discovering what the matter at hand was. Kingsley looked questioningly from the Headmistress to Severus, who straightened slightly before he spoke:

"It has come to my attention that Percival Weasley bears the Dark Mark."

A shocked silence followed. Minerva and Poppy had gone quite white, and Kingsley seemed to be frozen to the spot.

"I see," he finally said in his habitual measured tones, as calm as ever. "I assume you have good evidence?"

"Eyewitness testimony, Shacklebolt."

"What time will the meeting be?"

Minerva lifted her teacup, her fingers white from gripping it so tightly. "I believe seven o'clock in the morning will not be too early."

"Quite so," said Kingsley crisply. "Very well. Until tomorrow--Minerva, Severus. Ministry of Magic!" he cried, and, stepping into the fire, he disappeared.

0 0 0

The moment that Professor McGonagall left the dormitory, Hermione went into the bathroom and locked the door. She sat down on the edge of the bathtub and put her head between her knees, tangling her fingers in her hair.

She wasn't entirely sure how long she sat like that, barely breathing, her heart racing uncontrollably. It was a long time.

Eventually, though, she stood up and looked in the mirror.

"Stop being childish, Hermione. Draco Malfoy can hardly get into Gryffindor tower and come after you, even if you _haven't_ got the use of your wand," she hissed.

"Quite right, dear," said the mirror affably. Hermione washed her face and hands, and then felt in her sleeve for the reassuring presence of her wand.

It wasn't there.

"Bollocks," she muttered. The mirror made a noise of disapprobation, but Hermione ignored it, re-opening the bathroom door and snatching her wand from the bedside table. Professor Snape was right. Even if she couldn't actually use it with any real success, it was foolhardy in the extreme to leave it lying around where anybody could take it. Besides, she had enough of a reputation around the school by now that simply _drawing_ her wand would be an adequate deterrent to any student who might have an interest in bothering her—not that many did. None of them needed to know that she couldn't do anything with it.

They would find out soon enough, after all, once term started.

A knock sounded on the door and Hermione, slipping her wand back into her sleeve where it belonged, went to open it.

"Ginny!"

"We've come back to stay for the rest of holidays."

"You have? Why?"

"Because Ron's a prat and I'm tired of his ugly face," said Ginny shortly as Hermione stepped aside to let her in. "Harry's come back too."

"What ever happened to spending Christmas with the Dursleys?"

"They're staying at Grimmauld Place without him, for the time being. Harry's going to ask the Headmistress to let them come to the school for a visit--Dudley, at least. He'd already pushed the visit back a bit when we decided to go to Australia. I think he feels bad. I don't know exactly what they can do about it, though. Muggles can't get in to Hogwarts, can they?"

"They can if the Head of the school lets them and shields them from the anti-Muggle wards. Honestly, I ought to have bought you all copies of _Hogwarts, A History_ for Christmas."

Ginny chuckled. "You probably should have. The book of charms was lovely, though. Oi… haven't you opened any of _your_ presents yet?"

Hermione blinked, looking down at the still untouched pile of gifts on her trunk. "Oh. No, I guess I forgot about them."

"You really _are_ out of it, aren't you?"

"I've got other things on my mind than presents, thanks."

"Don't be daft. There's nothing more important than presents at Christmas!"

Hermione sat down cross-legged on her bed and picked up the first box. "You've certainly cheered up."

She shrugged. "Glad to be out of that house, to tell you the truth. Mum hasn't got it through her head yet that I'm of age now and I'm sick and tired of being surrounded by brothers all the time. Honestly, I think the real reason I'm the first girl Weasley to be born in so long is that the rest of the girls who were meant to come along over the years were too smart to allow it. That one's from me, go ahead and open it."

Ginny's present turned out to be a scarf, which she proudly declared that she'd made herself. "Mum's been teaching me, you know. Runs in the family, I guess, giving away jumpers and scarves and stuff at every opportunity."

"It's wonderful. I don't think I've ever felt anything so soft. What's it made of?"

"Pygmy puff fur. They shed something awful, you wouldn't believe it. Arnold's been dropping hairs all over the place ever since I got him and they're so nice and fluffy that I thought I'd save them and see if I could make something of them."

Hermione draped the scarf around her neck and picked up the next gift. It turned out to be a heavy leather-bound notebook from Harry, charmed to neatly alphabetize and index all notes by class, date, and subject. From Mrs. Weasley there was the customary jumper (pale blue this year) and a large box of fudge. Fleur and Bill sent a pretty box of French stationery, Charlie a small pendant carved from a dragon's tooth, and George a book entitled _The Witch's Guide to Household Hexes_, which promised to tell her everything she needed to know about keeping friends, family, and errant roommates in line. There didn't seem to be anything from Percy.

She looked down at the small pile of gifts. "Seems I've become part of the family," she said, with some embarrassment.

"I'd say so," said Ginny, picking up the last box and passing it to her. "This'll be Ron's, then."

"I don't know why he insists on wrapping it in that hideous orange paper. I don't even like Quidditch, and if I did, I wouldn't support the Chudley Cannons."

"I told you, Ron's a prat," said Ginny dispassionately. "And if you support any Quidditch team, it ought to be the Harpies anyhow."

"This is huge. What do you suppose it is?"

"Go ahead and open it so we can burn it and send him the ashes, eh?"

"You're a loyal sister, aren't you?"

Ginny responded by pointing her wand at the present and muttering a spell. The paper immediately ripped itself away, revealing a small pile of books, bound together neatly with string.

Picking up the note from the top of the pile, Hermione read, "'Mione – Thought these might come in useful next summer. Happy Christmas. Love, Ron."

"Next summer?" asked Ginny, puzzled. Looking over the pile, she widened her eyes. "God," she said softly. "He _didn't_."

"Apparently he did," said Hermione, not quite sure whether to be completely irritated with him or simply amused that he'd thought this Christmas gift would be a good idea even if they _hadn't_ split up. Spreading the books out on the coverlet, she read each title in turn.

"Charm your own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, One Minute Feasts, _and_ Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests. What did he do, just take an inventory of your mum's kitchen bookshelf?"

"Apparently," said Ginny, looking horrified. "At least he bought new copies. They're rather nice, actually, only—"

"Only I can't believe he thought I'd want a pile of cookbooks for Christmas."

"Well, exactly."

She shook her head, piling the books up neatly on her trunk.

Ginny picked up the Lockhart tome and flipped through it idly. "So, shall we burn them?"

"Don't be silly. They're books, after all. I'll put them in a box for now and pass them on to you and Harry for a wedding present."

Ginny snickered. "Excellent. Make sure you use the same wrapping paper. Harry likes the Cannons and hopefully even Ron won't be dense enough to miss it."

"I don't know how _anyone_ could miss it. It practically glows."

"Yeah," said Ginny, picking it up and inspecting it curiously. "I think he charmed it."

"GINNY!" shouted Harry from the Common Room. "You're supposed to be bringing her _down_!"

"Oh!" Ginny jumped up from the bed, grabbing Hermione by the hands and pulling her along. "That's right, Harry's been waiting downstairs. He wanted to visit with you this morning, only Ron got in the way."

"I'm—I'm not really supposed to leave this room. I'm supposed to be recovering."

"We'll set you up in an armchair. It's just down the stairs. Come on," she coaxed. "We've come all this way to spend the evening with you. Neville's here too, actually. Seems we just couldn't stay away from you."

Eventually, Hermione gave in and allowed Ginny to pull her down the stairs and to the Common Room. Sure enough, Harry and Neville were there, Neville beaming at her jovially while Harry stoked the fire. As soon as she was down the stairs, they both grabbed her and hugged tightly.

"We were so worried about you, you've no idea," said Neville when they broke apart. "Harry said you've been in the Hospital Wing. Are you all right? What happened in Australia?"

Hermione shrugged and sat down close to the fire. "I'd rather not talk about it, actually, if it's all the same to you. I'm fine, though. Sore, but nothing seriously wrong with me."

"Neville's just been to St. Mungo's," said Harry brightly.

"It was _brilliant_, Hermione," said Neville, his face positively glowing. "Healer Pye didn't want to let me see my mum and dad _just_ yet—he says they've got a bit of a way to go still, but the Muggle stuff they've been doing has worked wonders, he says. He says I might even get to—to talk to them. I mean _really_ talk, you know?"

She managed a weak smile. "Oh, Neville! That's wonderful!"

His cheeks suddenly went very pink. "I was wondering if you'd come with me, Hermione," he said rather hesitantly. "You've always been such a good friend, and I'd like to have someone there with me. You and Ginny too, Harry."

Hermione paused. The last thing she wanted was to go witness someone else's tearful reunion with their parents, wasn't it? But of course, she couldn't refuse Neville something like that. He'd been waiting for so many years in the hope of speaking with them. It would be cruel to turn him down.

"Of course I'll come, Neville," she finally said.

He hugged her again. "Brilliant. Come and play Exploding Snap with us now and try to relax a bit. I know it probably sounds a bit callous to say it, in the face of everything that's happened, but you ought to have a little fun."

Three hours later, when she finally went to bed, Hermione had to admit that he was right. It didn't really solve anything in the long run, but it was good to know that she had a few friends who loved her.

0 0 0

The Astronomy tower loomed precariously over the grounds of Hogwarts. A bitterly cold wind whipped around Severus, making his robes flap loudly around his ankles and arms. Above him, the glowing green of the Dark Mark cast an impossibly bright light down from the sky.

Just the two of them, alone. He stared across the tower at the other man, leaning so feebly against the wall.

"Severus," the man croaked, gazing into his eyes with an expression that was probably meant to be appealing. "Please…"

A dozen different emotions surged through him at once. Fear, anger—even loathing at the thought of what he was being asked to do. Mostly, though, he felt grief, terrible grief. It was too soon. Too soon to let go of the only man he truly thought of as a friend. But he had no choice. Those piercing blue eyes impelled him.

_Forgive me_, he thought as he raised his wand, feeling his face contort with the force of the emotion that the spell required. He forced himself to think of everything he'd done at the man's behest, everything that he'd been forced into against his will. Every danger he'd been put into, every _Crucio_ he'd endured, and every argument they'd had—he summoned all of them to mind at once, as he'd been practicing for months, in preparation for this moment.

Still, it almost wasn't enough. He wasn't even sure it would work, until he opened his mouth—

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

The man let loose a long, piercing scream. Severus dropped his wand, staring in horror as the body of Albus Dumbledore collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain as green light coalesced around his body.

"No!" he shouted helplessly. "It was meant to be instantaneous! It was meant to be painless!"

"Severus," groaned Dumbledore, clawing at the stones of the Astronomy Tower with his blackened, mummified hands.

But before Severus could reach him he was gone, and there was no sign that he'd ever been there at all. Severus spun around wildly, searching for the Headmaster, but he had disappeared—dead, at Severus' hand.

He needed to find him. Frantically, he ran from the tower, searching for Dumbledore as he went, but he was gone as completely as if he'd never existed at all. Bursting into the Headmasters' office, Severus searched the wall for the portrait he'd come to know only too well, but it wasn't there.

On a sudden inspiration, he ran to his own classroom. It was dark and empty. Lighting his wand, he gazed around.

Nothing. Not even a desk. Only the familiar walls covered with painting upon painting of horrible curses, tortures, and disfigurements. A quiet, horrible keening echoed eerily through the room, and Severus realized after a moment that it was coming from the paintings.

Moving closer to one, he raised his wand to look at it.

Hermione Granger, her body torn open and bleeding from the _Sectumsempra_ curse, lay on a painted floor, screaming and screaming.

"_Silencio!_" he shouted desperately, pointing his wand at the painting, but the screaming didn't stop. He moved away from the painting, but the next one was just as bad. Here, she was clearly under the effects of the Cruciatus curse, and he knew all too well that what he was seeing was true to life. That painting, too, was screaming terribly, although so softly that he almost had to strain to hear the inhuman sounds of agony that she was making.

Again he tried to silence the portrait, and again he failed. He was beginning to shake now, and he turned away, only to be confronted with another portrait, this one huge, looming over him.

She lay still, crumpled on the floor of the Astronomy Tower with a look of surprise on her face. Her skin was completely colorless-- it seemed almost translucent. Her hair tumbled around her face in a tumult of curls.

He couldn't help himself. He moved forward until he stood just in front of her and he fell to his knees, reaching forward to touch her, brushing the backs of his fingers down her cheek with only the slightest of touches.

Her skin was still warm, was softer than anything he could have ever imagined. And he knew, with a certainty beyond certainty, that she was dead.

"Hermione," he whispered in anguish—except that it wasn't a whisper, it was a shout, and it woke him up and left him alone in the darkness of his chambers, with only the lingering image of her pale, dead face to haunt him.

0 0 0

Professor McGonagall sent House-Elves to wake all of them up quite early. They dressed quickly and went straight to her office, where she was waiting for them with Floo powder and a bleak, set expression on her face.

Once Harry, Ginny and Neville had gone through the Floo, Professor McGonagall stopped her.

"Hermione," she said gently. "Am I correct in assuming that it was you who discovered the Mark on Percy?"

"Yes, Professor."

"You're… sure that's what you saw?"

"I'm sure." She looked down at her hands, fidgeting nervously. Professor McGonagall's face fell, and Hermione tried not to think about how dismayed and disappointed she must be in her former Head Boy.

"You're willing to say this in front of the other members of the Order?"

"I—if I have to, I will. I'd prefer not to, though, Professor."

"I understand. Well, we shall see how it goes when the time comes. Here's the Floo powder. I'll meet up with you in a few minutes."

Hermione took a handful of powder, threw it into the fire, and shouted "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!"

The last thing she heard as she began to spin through the network was the door opening and Professor McGonagall saying "Severus—"

0 0 0

"Severus," said Minerva wearily as he entered the room. "You look absolutely terrible," she added a moment later, once she'd had a moment to look at him.

"I did not sleep."

"At all?"

"An hour, perhaps."

"I hope it was for a good reason. I'd prefer it if you didn't make yourself ill just now. There's too much else going on."

He swallowed, shutting the door carefully behind him and trying to ignore the presence of the portraits that lined the wall. "I cannot continue to do this, Minerva."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I… do not know what to do about… Miss Granger."

"My goodness, Severus, why on earth would you need to do anything about her at all?"

He stared at her through bleary eyes. He was exhausted. He'd been unable to sleep after the nightmare, unable to do anything but play it and re-play it again and again in his head. Still, he couldn't admit that to Minerva. Some things simply had to remain secret. She wouldn't understand.

"The enchantment is more trying than even I anticipated."

She frowned. "Have you experienced any sympathetic lessening of your ability to—"

"None that I have noticed. It is a matter of—I find it distracting," he muttered lamely, painfully aware that it wasn't the truth and that his feeble lie would do nothing to earn her sympathy.

"I see," she said. "Distracting. Yes, well, I can see why that legitimizes the mid-year overhaul of your schedule and hers. Perhaps you'd like me to send you on sabbatical for the rest of the year, so you can put a little more distance between the two of you? Maybe I should have her transferred to Beauxbatons? Take a few days off. Go to Spinner's End and catch up on your sleep. You're on holiday, after all, now that I'm back from Australia. And stop asking me to fix things that cannot be fixed."

He looked at her steadily, smoothing his expression into one of utter blandness. "Of course, Minerva. You are quite right, naturally. I only need a few days of sleep." He _almost_ managed to keep the sneer out of his voice as he said it. Picking up the bowl of Floo powder, he held it out for her. "After you, Headmistress."

He watched her disappear into the flames and then lifted his eyes to Dumbledore's portrait. The Headmaster was gazing down at him without so much as pretending to hide his scrutiny, for once.

"I cannot do it, Albus," he murmured wearily.

"So you said to Minerva."

"She invades even my dreams!" he cried, shuddering once again at the memory of it. "I have enough of my own pain to bear, Albus, I cannot bear hers as well!"

Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap calmly. "What do you propose to do about it, Severus?"

"I… do not know. Surely there is something, some solution that hasn't been found yet."

"By all means, continue to look, but you know there is nothing."

"A potion, perhaps."

"I know of no such potion."

"She has lost her ability to do magic. What if it—what if I do the same?"

"Ah, I see. You fear that your fate will be the same as your mother's, perhaps?"

He swallowed. "Perhaps."

"You know, you have become surprisingly open in the past few months. That was almost a direct answer. She really _is_ rubbing off on you."

"Albus—" he said warningly.

"Have you considered," said Dumbledore, in a slightly sharper tone, "what the experience must be like for Miss Granger?"

"Of course I have considered it. I discussed it with her."

"Ah, you asked her how she felt, did you?"

"I—not exactly. I did not need to ask. I… knew."

"Then you know, surely, how she must be dreading the start of term, given her current indisposition."

He frowned. "I have thought about it."

"Perhaps you ought to discuss it with her at greater length. I'm sure if she had someone to talk to—"

"No."

"Severus—"

"_No_."

Dumbledore, looking slightly put out, produced a lemon drop from somewhere and popped it into his mouth, frowning.

Severus scowled. "The girl is not even in my House, Albus. She is not my concern, except insofar as her experiences impact mine. I have neither the responsibility nor the inclination to make myself available to her for such conversations. I desire to spend _less_ time with her, not more."

"Ah, yes, avoidance has worked stunningly well, has it not?"

"Witty as ever, Albus, but I will not be manipulated by you."

"Severus," he spread his hands out innocently. "I am not trying to manipulate you. It is natural for you to feel this way, after all that you've been through since the holidays began."

"Do not patronize me!"

"What would you like from me, Severus? I will not say what you wish to hear."

He paused, looking miserably up at Dumbledore. "A little encouragement, perhaps."

"Take heart then. You are doing well."

"And if my soul is dragged down into failure and misery along with hers?"

"Well, if you're afraid of that, I suggest you make some effort to ensure that she is _not_ dragged down into failure and misery."

Severus grabbed a handful of Floo powder. "I will not stand here and chase the matter in circles with a doddering fool who refuses to see reason. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!" he shouted, stepping into the fire.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Yikes. Another slow-to-arrive chapter. My apologies! 

Chapter title is a nod to the wonderful (and, sadly, abandoned) fic _Falling Further In_, by KazVL.

_Mathurin_: Patron saint of fools and idiots. Poor Dawlish. He's mentioned in DH (I fervently hope that he didn't have a death that I overlooked) as having been Confunded one too many times. I think he probably went off the deep end a bit.

Much love and thanks to all the folks in WIKTT chat yesterday who helped me write, and also to my lovely troupe of idea-bouncers and encouragers. You're brilliant.

Love and thanks also to everyone who's taken the time to review. You make my day.


	43. For By That Sin

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 43: For By That Sin**

* * *

"Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels"  
–_Cardinal Wolsey, Shakespeare's King Henry VIII, Act 3, Scene 2_

They weren't the first to arrive at Grimmauld Place. Most of the Weasleys were already milling about the kitchen, and Andromeda Tonks was holding her very disgruntled grandson and feeding him some sort of mush that ended up everywhere but in his mouth. Hermione heard Harry's breath catch when he saw his godson. Teddy, today, looked like an infant version of his father, except for the single shock of blue hair that fell over his forehead and mingled with the brown.

"Harry! Hermione!" cried Molly Weasley as soon as they entered the room, hurrying forward to hug them both at once. "Come in and sit down, dears. Breakfast is on the stove. I hope you don't mind, Harry—I thought people would probably be feeling peckish. I don't know what on earth Minerva was thinking, calling an emergency meeting at this time in the morning."

"I bet she reckoned there must be some sort of emergency," said George sardonically. Mrs. Weasley tutted at him, leaning over to pinch his cheek before her hand moved into Percy's hair, which she ruffled up affectionately. Watching it made Hermione feel vaguely ill, and she crossed to the opposite side of the room.

"Are you hungry, dears? And here's Neville, too! Have a seat, boys. What'll it be for breakfast? Eggs? Kippers?"

"Corn flakes for me, thanks," said Harry, helping Ginny into her seat before taking his own. "And a cup of tea, if it's ready."

"Of course, dear," she said fondly, cup and saucer already in her hand.

"Good to see you too, mum," said Ginny pointedly. Mrs. Weasley beamed at her.

"Hello my darling. What will you have?"

"Tea and toast is fine, thanks."

With a great clattering of pans and dishes, Mrs. Weasley returned to the stove, preparing eight different breakfasts apparently all at once. Hermione watched her with a creeping sense of awe and wondered if it might be worthwhile to look through the cookbooks Ron had given her after all.

"Hermione, dear, there's a seat by Ron. Settle in and have a cup of tea. What will you have for breakfast?"

She glanced guiltily at Ron, who had remained totally silent until now, looking at her miserably. "Oh," she mumbled, her cheeks growing hot. "I'm not hungry, thanks. Or thirsty."

Mrs. Weasley turned around, squinting at her over the sea of red heads that filled the space between them. "Are you ill? You _are_ looking rather peaky—"

"No, not ill. I just—I've got out of the habit of eating breakfast, that's all."

"Don't be mad. S'the most important meal of the day," said George through an indecently large mouthful of sausage.

"Well," said Mrs. Weasley doubtfully, "if you're really not hungry—Neville, what would you like? We've got all sorts of things…"

She went on chatting happily to Neville, taking breakfast orders and dishing up plate after plate of delicious-smelling food. Hermione sat down next to Mr. Weasley, who had his face buried in _The Daily Prophet_, as he so often did in the mornings.

The kitchen door opened again and Professor McGonagall walked in, looking distinctly harried.

"Good morning, Minerva," called Molly over her shoulder when she saw who it was. "Breakfast?"

"No, thank you Molly. A cup of tea will do."

Neville stood up gallantly. "Take my seat, won't you Professor?"

She allowed him a tired smile. "Very kind of you, Longbottom, but I think I'll stand. Ah, thank you Molly." She took her tea and stationed herself by the door to the front hallway. Hermione, watching her, noticed that she glanced discreetly at Percy every few moments, as though waiting for him to shake his sleeve back and reveal what Hermione had seen only by accident at Christmas dinner.

The front door opened and footsteps sounded in the hallway. Rubbing his hands together to warm them up, Charlie Weasley entered the kitchen, nodding to Hermione, conjuring a chair, and practically throwing himself into it.

"Are you making breakfast, mum? Brilliant—couldn't poach me an egg, could you?"

Mrs. Weasley stopped cooking long enough to beam at her son. "Of course I could. Ron, what are you looking like that for? You haven't touched your breakfast. Stop lolling about like that and tuck in. You're not going to have time to eat once the meeting starts." Dropping her spatula, she reached across the table and cupped her hand around his forehead. "_You're_ not ill, are you? You don't feel hot—how's your stomach?"

"I'm fine, mum," he muttered, pushing her hand away and glowering down at his breakfast.

The front door opened again and Hermione heard what sounded like Fleur's voice drifting through the corridor. A minute later, Bill held the door open for his wife, who was followed immediately by Hestia Jones. Both women pulled off heavy cloaks and began unwrapping thick scarves and pulling off gloves.

"I shall never get used to zis Eenglish climate," Fleur complained, holding her hands up to the fire and turning them this way and that admiringly. "Eet is far too cold."

"Not always," said Bill consolingly, coming up behind her and squeezing her shoulders. Hermione, unable to help herself, glanced at Ron. He was staring at Bill and Fleur dolefully, his food still untouched.

"Good Lord," said a cold voice from the interior door. "Another Weasley family reunion, so soon? Or have you opened a restaurant in Potter's kitchen, Molly?"

"Good morning to you, too, Severus," said Mrs. Weasley, handing him a cup of tea. He accepted it with bad grace and immediately betook himself to a corner, leaning against the wall with his tea and gazing at all of them darkly.

"Ron, you _do_ look awful," said Percy, laying down his fork and adjusting his glasses slightly as he looked at his brother. "What's wrong?"

"Oh didn't you hear?" said Ginny, setting her teacup down so that it hit the saucer loudly. "He and Hermione had a row and she finally threw him over. And about damn time, too," she added thoughtfully, with a particularly nasty look in Ron's direction.

The constant noise that had filled the kitchen ever since Hermione walked into it stopped abruptly. She could hear nothing but a faint sizzling coming from one of the many frying pans on the stove. Every eye fixed on her and she bit her lip hard, looking determinedly at an empty stretch of wall across the room.

"Hermione?" said Neville in a strangled voice. "You—did you really?"

She opened her mouth, but she could think of nothing to say. Mrs. Weasley, however, who had frozen with a pot of porridge still in one hand, looked as though she had no such problem. Hermione supposed it was only a matter of a few more seconds before the dam burst and she caught the full brunt of her disappointment and anger.

"_Why_?" exclaimed George, flabbergasted. "I mean, other than the fact that he's a stupid git—"

"George Weasley," snapped his mother, "shut your mouth. Now, Hermione, I'm sure that whatever it is, the two of you can work things out," she said kindly. "Probably just a misunderstanding, wasn't it?"

"I… don't think so, Mrs. Weasley," she stammered. Ron slouched even lower in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing much more loudly than was strictly necessary.

"Perhaps you ought to ask _Ron_ about it, mum," sneered Ginny. Harry leaned over to shush her, whispering something in her ear and she, too, leaned back in her chair, with a scowl that rivaled her brother's.

Yet again, the front door opened, and yet again the noise of footsteps and lowered voices carried through into the kitchen, followed shortly afterwards by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Auror Proudfoot. Everyone ignored them and Mrs. Weasley looked from Hermione to Ron, and then back to Hermione.

"I do hope," she said in a tight voice, "that _someone_ is going to explain this."

Before she realized what she was doing, Hermione found herself looking towards Professor Snape in a mute appeal for help. She had no idea why she'd done it, or why she hoped he might come to her aid. He caught her eye and blinked in surprise. Then his hand tightened slightly on the saucer of his teacup and then, to her shock, he stepped forward.

"Ah," he said silkily, "yes, Molly. I intended to owl you today and let you know, in fact, that you might wish to have a word with your son about his language."

"His… language?" repeated Mrs. Weasley, looking at him in confusion.

"As you are probably aware, Hogwarts does not tolerate the use of profanity, especially that which is derogatory to Muggle-borns."

"What exactly are you saying, Severus?" said Mr. Weasley, his newspaper long since forgotten.

"I am saying," said Professor Snape, his voice growing even smoother, even more poisonously melodious, "that if your son wishes to refer to his Muggle-born classmates as 'mudblood whores,' he ought to do it _off_ of school grounds."

With a loud crash, the pot of porridge that Mrs. Weasley still held in her hand fell to the floor, sending food flying everywhere. Harry, Ginny, and Professor Snape were the only ones who didn't look completely shocked by the revelation. Neville was looking at Ron as though he'd never seen him before, and Professor McGonagall looked as though it was taking all that she had in her to refrain from expelling him on the spot. Even Teddy Lupin, gazing wide-eyed at the silent crowd of adults surrounding him, made no noise.

"Ron," breathed Charlie, staring across the table, "you _didn't_."

"—did you?" asked George.

Ron hung his head even lower and muttered something unintelligible.

"Merlin, he _did,_" murmured Bill. "Ron, you _twat_."

Hermione half expected Mrs. Weasley to correct Bill for his language, but she didn't. She glanced at her husband, licked her lips, and then walked over to Ron and slapped the side of his head as hard as he could.

"_OUCH!_ Mum!"

"Ronald Weasley," she hissed softly. "Upstairs. NOW."

Mr. Weasley was already on his feet and holding the door open for them, looking angrier than Hermione had ever seen him before. They'd barely left the room before someone started shouting, in a voice so loud that they might as well still be standing in the kitchen.

"RONALD BILIOUS WEASLEY! Never in all my _life_ have I been so ashamed of one of my children!" roared Mr. Weasley, his voice so shockingly loud that Teddy Lupin burst into tears. "After everything that your mother and I have sacrificed, after what your brother Fred _died_ for—I am utterly disgusted! I have spent my entire life striving against this sort of thinking by pureblood wizards. I am _completely_ disappointed in you—"

They finally made it far enough up the stairs that Hermione could no longer make out what he was saying. Everyone else was still silent, most of them looking at her with open mouths. Professor Snape, however, was staring at the door that Ron had left through with a look of vindictive pleasure.

"Hermione—" began Bill, but he seemed to be at a loss for how to continue.

"I would not 'ave thought it of a Weasley," said Fleur indignantly, "to use such a word as zat. I am sorry, 'Ermione, zat 'e 'as behaved so."

Anger made her accent much stronger, and she fairly trembled with indignation. "In France, it is sometimes so also. Pureblood wizards in my country, zey look down on half-breeds." She spat the last word out bitterly, gesturing to herself. "Some of zem would not 'ave me even attend school, if zey 'ad things as zey wished. Eet is better for me 'ere… but not for you sometimes, I think."

Hermione felt strangely calm—far more than she suspected she ought to. She managed to get out some sort of grateful acknowledgement to Fleur. Ginny stood up and got her a cup of tea, setting it in front of her with a sympathetic squeeze to her hand. She picked up the cup and took a sip, trying not to look at anyone.

"Well," said George slowly, "I don't blame you, Hermione. That was—I'm surprised you even sat at the same table with him."

"It's fine," she said in a small voice. "I don't think he really… you know… _meant_ it."

"It doesn't matter if he _meant_ it," snapped Ginny. "He knows better."

Hermione looked up just in time to catch the look that Ginny gave Percy when she spoke, and the sight made her shudder. She looked down, immediately fixing her attention on her tea again. There was only one explanation for that look—Ginny knew.

Once again, the front door opened, this time to allow the entrance of both Dedalus Diggle and Luna Lovegood. She paused at the door and gazed over the tense, crowded kitchen, blinking owlishly.

"What's happened?" she said, looking around. "Did someone die?"

"Not quite," muttered Bill, "but someone is going to, if mum doesn't hold dad back."

"Oh," said Luna, apparently finding his answer to be completely sufficient. "There's porridge all over the floor—did you know?"

"Yes, thanks, Luna," said Hermione, putting her head in her hands. "We knew."

"Is that a new way to cook it?" she asked interestedly. "I usually like to use the stove."

Neville's mouth twitched. "It spilled."

"Oh! Hello, Neville," said Luna brightly. "I didn't know you'd be here."

His face split into a wide grin. "Full-fledged Order member now."

"That's really good," said Luna seriously. "Are you crying, Hermione?"

"No, for once," said Hermione, lifting her head again with a heavy sigh. "Just… resting."

0 0 0

Severus watched her from the corner. He'd expected tears and histrionics, a prediction which he certainly felt was justified, given her earlier response to the issue. Now, however, she simply sat, white-faced and nearly silent. The Weasleys looked both shocked and murderously angry, to their credit. He'd expected at least one or two of them to take their brother's side, but even Percy looked disgusted.

Although, if Percy _was_ a Death Eater, it wouldn't be too difficult for him to feign disgust in order to avoid suspicion. Now that Dedalus and Luna had arrived, they needed only to wait for the elder Weasleys to return—possibly with their son's head on a platter—and then the meeting could begin.

Dumbledore was right, he supposed, at least to some degree. It would do him no good to ignore her situation and let it get out of hand, which meant he ought to keep some sort of eye on her.

It had nothing to do, of course, with his growing fear that he had no choice in the matter. He was hypersensitive to her presence, constantly aware of every move that she made. He couldn't keep himself from paying attention to her, from cataloguing every gesture and sound. Months of watching for signs that she'd guessed their connection had made it habitual for him to watch her, and he was finding the habit harder to break than he'd anticipated it would be.

He stopped watching only when two more people entered the kitchen—Petunia and Dudley, looking very sleepy and rather put-out.

"Harry?" said Dudley, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on? I thought you said you were going back to school."

"Sorry, Dud," said Harry, chagrined. "I forgot to let you know. Emergency Order meeting."

"Was that the Weasleys screaming in the hallway? What's going on?"

Harry grimaced. "Long story. Want some breakfast? We've got a little bit of everything—except porridge."

Petunia, the moment she heard Harry mention the Order, had begun to look around, searching the kitchen. She'd looked at nearly everyone before she found him and then she shivered, tensing defensively. He nodded in her direction and then turned away again, sipping his tea nonchalantly.

Harry's chair scraped on the floor. "Sorry about the mess—_Evanesco_," he muttered. "Can I get you anything, Aunt Petunia? Tea? Bacon?"

"Yes, thank you," she said carefully, as though the words were foreign to her. In his peripheral vision, Severus saw Dudley pick up Arthur Weasley's overturned chair and help his mother into it before sitting down. From the look that Harry gave them, it was an unusual gesture. Severus wasn't surprised to discover it.

"So," said Dudley slowly, once they were both in chairs and Harry was dishing up some breakfast out of Molly's abandoned pots and pans, "an emergency meeting? Did something bad happen?"

"Er—we don't exactly know yet," said Harry, glancing around at everyone else in the room. They were all still silent, the Weasley boys all looking up at the ceiling as if wishing they could see through it to witness their brother's punishment. "We got a bit sidetracked by something else."

"Yeah, we heard. Woke us up."

Harry winced. "Sorry."

Severus let his gaze trail over to Hermione—_Miss Granger_—again. She'd dipped her fingertip into her tea and let it drip onto the table, and was now tracing her finger through the drops, turning them into an odd sort of design. She had long fingers, compared to most women, thin-boned and delicate.

He forced himself to look away again.

"Perhaps we ought to begin without them?" said Andromeda.

"I think not," replied Minerva after a moment. "I believe it's important that they—that we _all_ are present."

"Maybe someone should go after mum and dad, then," said Charlie doubtfully.

"Don't bother," said Molly sourly from the door. "Minerva, do you need our son as well? He's currently busy… thinking about what he's done."

Severus lowered his head, hiding his smirk behind his hair. Weasley deserved every last moment of shame that he got. After all, he'd spent years paying for his own slip.

Minerva's face mirrored Severus' feelings almost perfectly. "I think not," she said crisply. "As long as all the adults are here, I think we can begin."

"I'd rather wait for Ron," said Hermione—no, said _Miss Granger_--in a small voice.

"That's… sweet of you, Hermione," began Arthur doubtfully, "but you don't need to do that for our sakes."

"No, I'd rather wait for Ron. He's a—he's a git, but he _is_ a member of the Order, and it wouldn't really be fair to start the meeting without him."

Her chin was set at a particularly determined-looking angle, and she was looking around the room with a mix of defiance and anxiety. Severus felt a sudden pang of loss, remembering the hours he'd spent prone on the floor outside of the Gryffindor Common Room before Lily would even speak to him again. He'd been so conscious of his guilt, as had she, and she'd never let him forget it.

Ginevra Weasley got up without another word to fetch her brother, and Severus scowled. It was far too forgiving of her. Far too understanding.

She met his eyes and his heartbeat stumbled painfully when he saw the bleak, miserable look in them. No, he realized, she hadn't forgiven or forgotten. She was simply doing the right thing, as any good Gryffindor ought, and that meant being civil to the boy who'd purposefully set out to wound her and had thus hit her, unknowingly, directly in the most vulnerable part of her heart.

He scowled. Weasley was an unforgivable bastard, as Severus had known all along, and he wouldn't forget it, even if she could.

0 0 0

At Kingsley Shacklebolt's suggestion, they moved to the library in order to allow the Dursleys to eat their breakfast in peace. Ginny placed Hermione on a couch and then sat down beside her, glaring at Ron as if daring him to so much as look at them. Neville, who had shared the entire scandal with Luna in hushed tones back in the kitchen, took up a station standing just behind her. Harry sat at Ginny's feet, his head on her knee.

Professor Snape glanced at them, his eyes moving over Harry and Ginny. His face twisted, and he looked for a second as if he might be sick. Hermione suppressed an entirely inappropriate giggle at the sight. He noted it and raised one eyebrow at her, which only made the urge to giggle even stronger.

Professor McGonagall tapped the bottom of her cane on the floor sharply. "This meeting of the Order of the Phoenix will now commence. As it is an emergency meeting, the minutes from the previous meeting will not be read. However, they will be available to anyone who wishes to look at them afterwards."

She was standing in the center of the room, gazing at all of the assembled witches and wizards before her. Hermione thought she looked terribly sad.

"There is only one order of business to discuss today," she said slowly, "one which concerns every one of us deeply—"

At that moment, Teddy, who'd been sitting in Percy's lap, began to cry. Percy stood up, muttering an excuse, and heading for the door.

"Andromeda," said Professor McGonagall, "take your grandson and quiet him. Sit back down, Percy."

Percy froze, Teddy squirming and wailing in his arms until Andromeda Tonks, looking baffled, relieved him of his burden. She retreated to the doorway, bouncing her grandson gently in her arms until he'd quieted down. Professor McGonagall waited until all were silent again. Percy still hadn't moved.

Hermione held her breath, praying that she wouldn't be asked to speak. Professor McGonagall looked at her briefly, and then at Professor Snape and Kingsley Shacklebolt before she cleared her throat and spoke again:

"There is no… easy way to say this. It has been brought to my attention… that a member of our Order saw the Dark Mark—on Percival Weasley's arm."

"No!" shouted Andromeda, clutching Teddy convulsively to her chest with a horrified look. Hermione couldn't blame her. If Percy _was_ a Death Eater and he'd spent so much time holding Remus Lupin's son, Merlin only knew what might have been done to the boy.

Harry had leapt to his feet, and Hermione heard Neville start forward as well.

"He can't be," said Harry in a desperate voice. "Whoever saw it must have been wrong."

"There is an easy way to discover it," said Professor Snape, stepping forward, his wand out.

"Don't!" cried Mrs. Weasley, running forward and standing in front of her son, who seemed utterly petrified. "Don't, Severus!"

Professor Snape's lip curled. "I had no intention of _attacking_ him, Molly," he said mockingly, unbuttoning his sleeve as he spoke and rolling it up above his elbow. Gritting his teeth, he raised his left arm, closed his eyes, and pressed the tip of his wand against the Mark that he bore, grimacing in pain.

Without warning, Percy clutched his left arm and fell to the ground, screaming in pain. At Hermione's side, Ginny let out a soft moan and hid her face in her hands. Ron and George shuddered, and Professor McGonagall flinched.

"Stop it!" cried Mrs. Weasley, falling to her knees beside her son and pulling him into her arms. "_Stop it,_ Severus! You're hurting him!"

Professor Snape let his left arm drop, beads of sweat now standing out on his pale forehead. "I would not be able to hurt him," he said hoarsely, "if he were an honest man."

"That confirms it then," said Professor McGonagall, her own wand out and pointing at Percy now. Auror Proudfoot, Neville Longbottom, and Hestia Jones had drawn wands as well.

Harry clenched his fists. "You bastard," he said furiously. "You _bastard_, Percy. I should have known all along!"

"Harry!" said Ginny, grabbing his sleeve as he reached for his wand. "No! You don't understand!"

He whirled on her. "You _knew_? Ginny," he murmured, a look of unspeakable pain and disappointment crossing his face, "how could you know, and keep it from me?"

"They made me promise," she said miserably. "I'm _sorry_, Harry. Please don't be angry with me. I had to promise!"

"What is this?" interrupted Professor McGonagall, her wand still trained on Percy and Mrs. Weasley.

"Minerva," said Mr. Weasley, standing up and holding his hands out in a gesture of surrender. "I… owe you an explanation."

"I should say so, Arthur," said Professor Snape, his voice colder than ice.

"Percy came to us after the Battle," said Mr. Weasley, refusing to look at the spot where Mrs. Weasley and Percy still sat on the floor. "He—he showed us the Mark immediately. Said he'd made a mistake, and begged our forgiveness. He wanted to change, wanted our help."

"What could we do?" whispered Molly, her voice thick with tears. "He's our _son_, Minerva. We couldn't turn him away."

Neither Professor Snape nor Professor McGonagall lowered their wands. "And your proof that he has not been lying to you?" murmured Professor Snape.

"We couldn't prove it," admitted Mr. Weasley, "but we couldn't bring ourselves to refuse him. George offered to watch him. They've spent nearly every waking moment together ever since Percy returned to our home. We've contrived to send him out of Order meetings, just in case. Believe me, Minerva, we did not wish to risk the Order—"

"Then you should have informed us from the beginning of what he was!" shouted Andromeda from the door.

"We should have," said Mr. Weasley miserably, "but he begged us not to."

"Awfully suspicious," muttered Hestia.

Professor Snape took a step forward. "My thoughts exactly. If he really had an interest in renouncing his allegiance to the Dark Lord, why did he not make it public? Move aside, Molly, and let your coward son speak for himself," he snarled. "I wish to hear an explanation of his actions from his own lips."

"Molly," said Mr. Weasley miserably. Mrs. Weasley, with one small sob, got up and moved to her husband's side. Hermione pulled her knees to her chest, staring at Percy as he got to his feet, picking up his horn-rimmed glasses from where they'd fallen and returning them to his face.

"Mr. Weasley," said Professor McGonagall, "I expect this explanation to be good. All of you, lower your wands. I will not have it said that we attacked anyone who genuinely wished to serve the Order."

Grudgingly, the wands were lowered. Professor Snape backed up slightly, although he never looked away. Ginny managed to get Harry to sit down again, their hands clasped tightly together.

"I became a Death Eater four years ago," said Percy in a quiet voice. "I didn't… mean it. Not at first. I saw where things were going early on. I knew they'd turn public opinion against Harry and Dumbledore, and I thought I could—I don't know what I thought I could do. I don't know why it seemed like a good idea."

He rubbed his left arm unconsciously, a gesture that Hermione had seen from Professor Snape more times than she could count. "They were trying to recruit me anyway." He laughed bitterly. "Thought I was a perfect catch. An ambitious pureblood wizard, anxious to get out from under the shadow of a blood-traitor family. Intelligent, talented, with plans to rise through the Ministry. I heard what Professor Snape was doing for Dumbledore and I thought maybe I could do the same thing. So I listened and pretended to be interested. When they offered to take me to the—the Dark Lord… I went."

Hermione glanced at Professor Snape, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking. His eyes were on Percy, and she didn't dare try to probe any further into his mind than a look in his direction.

Percy swallowed. "He read my mind. He knew what I was trying to do… but he let me join anyway. I had to swear not to tell Professor Snape, on pain of death. He wasn't trusted yet. It wasn't until he—until Dumbledore died that the Dark Lord really trusted him, I guess, and by then he was too busy with other things to be bothered with me. The D-Dark Lord didn't want to risk Professor Snape letting on to the Order what I'd done."

Hermione, still watching Professor Snape, saw him frown in concentration, as if unsure what to think. The story certainly made sense to her, thus far, although she was surprised that Percy would do something so very… _Gryffindor_. She sighed. Somehow she'd always been so caught up in thinking of Percy the Prefect or Percy the Head Boy that she'd managed to forget that he was also Percy the Gryffindor, and therefore, inevitably, Percy the Boy-Who-Rushes-Into-Things-Without-Thinking-Sometimes.

"I didn't know then that he knew my secret. I thought I'd fooled him. He started to send me out on missions… little things, with just a few other younger Death Eaters. We didn't do much, to be honest. Jinxing Muggles, mild curses on Ministry officials who weren't going the way that _he_ wanted them to."

He stopped and ran his hands through his hair, looking around but not seeming to really see any of them. "I don't know why it changed. They kept moving me up through the Ministry ranks, and talking about Muggles and Muggle-borns and blood purity. I told so many lies, I—they started to become the truth."

"That's why you walked out on your family," said Harry angrily.

Percy nodded. "I don't know how else to explain it other than to say that it just started to make sense. And… it feels good," he admitted with a shudder of revulsion. "I never thought it would feel good. They say Dark Magic and it makes you think that it's got to be unpleasant for the wizard casting it as well as the person on the receiving end, but it's not, usually. There are consequences, but it's—it's—addictive, I guess."

He paused for breath. Mrs. Weasley was crying softly. Everyone else seemed to be staring at him, absolutely transfixed—except for Hermione, who was staring at Professor Snape and longing to know what he was thinking. Of everybody in the room, he was the only person she really trusted to read Percy and discover whether he was telling the truth. She'd begun to think that she didn't really care what Percy's story was. She only wanted to know whether or not he ought to be joining Draco in Azkaban.

"I—I let them convince me that we'd been poor because of my father's position on blood purity. That being a blood traitor stood in my way. The Dark Lord said he'd make me Minister of Magic, if I kept doing so well. I kept rising through the ranks, and it was so good to have money, and to be successful, and I just didn't think about what I was doing to get it more than I could help."

Someone next to her grunted angrily, but Hermione didn't register whether it was Harry or Ginny.

"Then… just before the Battle, the Dark Lord called me to him. He said—he wanted me to pretend to reconcile with my family. He wanted someone to infiltrate the Order, since Professor Snape couldn't spy for him anymore, and he thought that if I could get back into their good graces, it would help him get information that he needed. And—" he paused, swallowing loudly again, "—when he had what he needed, I was to kill them."

"And you _agreed_?" exclaimed Harry indignantly.

"Yes," said Percy, his voice shaky. "I agreed."

"In earnest?"

"You don't understand!" Percy cried. "All my life I felt like I was fighting against my family's reputation, fighting against being poor, fighting constantly and never winning. I've always been the odd one out and, except for mum and dad, everyone constantly reminded me of it. I've never had any friends, except for Penny, and she… never really felt for me as I did for her. I'd not seen anyone from the family for more than a few moments in months and months, and he—he _did_ give what he promised to give. Without a family to live up to, what did I care what I did to get it?"

"So we're supposed to believe that all that suddenly doesn't matter to you now?" said Harry nastily. "Useful, given that Voldemort's dead and can't give you what you want anymore."

"I deserve that," said Percy, shrugging unhappily. "I lied, in the Room of Requirement. I said Aberforth contacted me about the Battle. He didn't. It was the Dark Mark. I felt the Dark Lord's summons, and I apparated into Hogsmeade. I saw Fred and George go through the Hog's Head. I watched through a window and then I told Aberforth I was with the D.A."

Harry muttered something nasty underneath his breath that Hermione couldn't quite catch.

"I—I lied. I said what I knew everyone wanted to hear, promised that I'd changed. It was the only way to take part in the Battle without giving myself away as a Death Eater. Then we left the Room of Requirement and—"

"And Fred died," whispered Ginny.

"Yes," said her brother bleakly. "Fred died."

"You put on a _wonderful_ act then," snarled Harry, starting to rise to his feet again.

"I didn't," said Percy in anguish. "I didn't put on an act after he died. It was an accident. I didn't mean to--when I saw him—oh, Merlin, when I saw him—you don't know…" his voice broke and he suddenly pulled his glasses off, wiping at his eyes furiously with the palm of one hand.

For a few moments, they just watched him struggle to master his grief, and then--"What do you mean, Percy?" said Ginny, in a very small voice.

"I threw a spell. I—I didn't mean to hit anyone with it, just to do some damage to the castle. I don't know if it was mine or someone else's. Rookwood was there, and the Minister, and then Fred—"

"Percy!" said Mr. Weasley, his face white. "You've never said this before."

"I know," said Percy miserably. "But it's the truth. I don't know. I don't know if it was me who killed him, or Rookwood, or someone from outside. It was all confused, and the next thing I knew he was dea—"

"NO!" roared George, launching himself from his seat and tackling Percy to the ground before anyone could react. "_NO, _Percy!" Professor Snape lunged forward, grabbing George by the shoulders, but George threw him off and then swung around and punched Percy squarely in the jaw.

"I've spent six months protecting you!" he screamed wildly, tears flowing freely down his cheek. "I lied for you! I hid you! And _you killed Fred! YOU KILLED FRED!_"

Professor Snape, who'd fallen over an empty chair when George shoved him aside, got back to his feet and ran forward again. This time he drew his wand and pointed it at George's back.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" he said fiercely. George froze, his face a mask of grief and misery. "Molly! Arthur! If you cannot control _any_ of your sons, I suggest you get them out of here now."

"Shut up, Snape," said Charlie angrily, brushing past Professor Snape and pointing his wand at George, levitating him off of Percy and into a corner. "Leave my parents alone."

Percy rolled over onto his side and spat two teeth out on to the floor, blood and saliva dripping from his mouth. A huge bruise was already forming on his cheek.

"Get up," said Professor Snape, grabbing him roughly by the arm and hauling him to his feet. When Percy swayed, Professor Snape summoned a chair and placed him in it. "You haven't told it all yet," he said through his teeth. "Why keep it a secret, Weasley?"

"Malfoy," said Percy, spitting out a mouthful of blood. "He and another Death Eater—Selwyn—contacted me a few days after the Battle. Said the plan was still going ahead, even without the Dark Lord, and to wait for their word. They wanted—they wanted to go after everyone involved in the Potterwatch broadcast." He spit out more blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Nobody offered him a handkerchief.

"Selwyn attacked Lee Jordan. Draco was there too, but as far as I know he didn't actually do much. He's a coward, really. Mostly it was Selwyn. Lupin and—and Fred are already dead. That leaves George for me," he paused long enough to run his tongue over his teeth, poking at the new holes and wincing in pain, "and Teddy. If it came out that I'd admitted to being a Death Eater and joined up with the Order officially, Selwyn would come after George and Teddy instead of leaving them for me to deal with. As long as they don't know, I can put them off, say I'm gathering more information against the Order."

"It didn't occur to you that the Order might be able to protect them?"

He shrugged. "They probably could have, you're right—but he's my younger brother. I didn't think about you. I thought about him."

"Admirable," said Professor McGonagall dryly, "but stupid."

"They're going to be coming after Professor Snape, too."

"I assure you, Weasley, I am not so stupid that I failed to grasp the implications of my true allegiance finally being confirmed."

"They think I can get them to you."

Professor McGonagall summoned a glass and muttered the Aguamenti charm, passing it to Percy when it was full of water. He took it and rinsed his mouth out gratefully. "I will not simply take your word on this, Mr. Weasley."

He blanched, but nodded.

"If you will consent, I will ask Professor Snape to perform Legilimency on you."

"He's a Legilimens?" said Percy softly. "That explains a lot."

Professor Snape sneered. "I'm sure it does, Weasley. Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then. _Legilimens!_"

As minutes began to drag by, Hermione tore herself away from the tableau that Percy and Professor Snape presented in the middle of the room and, instead, looked around at the rest of the Order. Mrs. Weasley was sobbing into her husband's shoulder, as she had been ever since the revelation of Percy's fears about his role in Fred's death. Charlie had released George from the full body-bind, but was holding him tightly by one arm, in case he tried to rush at Percy again. Bill and Fleur, both silent and stone-still, were watching Professor Snape explore Percy's mind.

The rest of them were doing the same, all of them looking similarly shell-shocked. Suddenly Hermione felt a warm glow of relief suffuse her mind, and, looking back at Professor Snape, she actually saw a faint, momentary smile cross his face before he addressed the room.

"He is in earnest, I believe. I move that we trust the boy's information, but continue to verify his status."

"Seconded," said Charlie immediately.

Professor McGonagall took a moment to clean the lenses of her spectacles and replace them on her nose before she looked around her. "All in favor?"

Slowly, every hand went up--except for Harry's.

"The motion is carried," said Professor McGonagall wearily. "Arthur, Molly—take your children home. We can make our plans in a few days."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Annnnd Percy is more or less explained. 

I wrote this all today. Just couldn't leave it. Hope that two chaps in less than 24 hours makes up for the four-day delay on the last one!

Thanks, as always, to Renita, Harmony, Heather, etc. for their endless support. I am also endlessly grateful to my reviewers and readers. This would be nowhere near as much fun without you.


	44. In the Blood, Truth

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 44: In the Blood, Truth**

* * *

The Weasleys left the meeting en masse, Mrs. Weasley tearfully herding Percy out the door while Mr. Weasley went with George through the Floo. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Auror Proudfoot left immediately as well, muttering something in passing to Professor McGonagall about dealing with fugitives and casting significant looks in Hermione's direction. For spies, she decided, they weren't terribly subtle. 

Hestia and Dedalus were the last of what Hermione thought of as the peripheral group to go. That left only Hermione, Harry, Neville, Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall.

The Headmistress was just reaching for the Floo powder when Harry cleared his throat loudly and cast a meaningful glance in Hermione and Neville's direction. Taking the hint, Hermione grabbed Neville by the arm and tugged him into a corner, staging a quiet conversation about his parents and then not really listening to his answers as she strained to hear the conversation between Harry and Professor McGonagall.

Professor Snape, still lurking in a corner, noticed Hermione and kept his place as well, although he looked pointedly over at Harry and Professor McGonagall, making no secret of his eavesdropping.

"Professor?" said Harry in a soft voice.

"Yes, Potter?"

"I—er, well, I was wondering… I'd meant to spend Christmas with my family, you see."

"Yes," she said, narrowing her eyes a fraction.

"Well, that didn't really work out, because of everything that happened with Hermione, you know, and I'd sort of like to stay at the school and give her a little company, since she mentioned she'd prefer not to be here at Grimmauld Place. And… I was wondering if maybe Dudley and Aunt Petunia could visit me at Hogwarts."

In his corner, Professor Snape's eyebrows disappeared into his thick mass of black hair, although he didn't visibly react otherwise. Hermione nodded vaguely at Neville, making an absent noise of assent when he paused for breath, straining harder than ever to hear.

"Potter, I don't know what could possibly make you think that's a good idea," said Professor McGonagall in surprise. "I can't remember the last time we allowed Muggles in the castle, and while I admit that they've improved dramatically, the truth remains that the Dursleys are still—"

"The worst kind of Muggles," sneered Professor Snape, coming forward from his corner. "You're a fool if you think it's a remotely good idea to let Petunia Dursley into the school, Potter."

"You _would_ think so," said Harry rebelliously. "You've never wanted her there at all. You even made fun of her for trying to get in!"

"Oh, very good, Potter. Once again you are given a mere _fraction_ of the information and you come to conclusions that are completely erroneous."

"Sounds familiar," muttered Harry.

"Your aunt is the last Muggle on earth who should be allowed into Hogwarts. I would think that you, of all people, would—"

"Severus," said Professor McGonagall, "that's quite enough."

"If not Aunt Petunia, then what about Dudley?" said Harry plaintively. "Only I've—well, they're the only blood family I have left now—" he glanced uncertainly at Professor Snape "—but Hermione is practically family too, and I don't like leaving her at school alone."

"Oh, very touching," sneered Professor Snape. "But it is high time you learned that you will not always be able to expect special treatment, Potter."

"It isn't _about_ me!" shouted Harry in frustration. "It's about Hermione!"

Hermione, feeling that the exchange had gone on quite long enough, left Neville in the corner and hurried forward. "It's fine, Harry," she said soothingly, praying that he hadn't just got himself into ridiculous trouble for shouting at Professor Snape. "If it's really so important to you, I'll—I'll just stay here."

"No," said Professor Snape flatly.

Harry grew even angrier. "You can't dictate where she goes out of school!"

"Really, Severus—" began Professor McGonagall, but he silenced her with a look.

"It is not safe," he said repressively, "especially given the information we have just received about Weasley and Malfoy."

"Of course it's safe," said Harry stubbornly. "I'm here, and anyway, Hermione can take care of herself. She's _Hermione_."

Hermione smiled sadly at him, but held her peace.

"With Death Eaters on the loose and Malfoy after the girl, Minerva, surely you agree that this plan is so foolhardy as to be out of the question," said Professor Snape.

"Don't talk about her like she's not standing right in front of you!" said Harry. "And none of the Death Eaters have any reason to even think she's here, so--"

"Unless Weasley alerts them," snapped Professor Snape.

"I thought you said he was on our side."

"Even a great Legilimens can be fooled, Potter, as I myself have proved quite thoroughly whilst in the service of the Dark Lord. Admittedly, I have difficulty imagining a Weasley capable of Occlumency, but Percy is the most likely candidate for it out of all the family, and Malfoy—"

"What's Malfoy got to do with it anyway?" interrupted Harry. "He's after George and Teddy, not Hermione."

Everyone exchanged uneasy looks. "Unfortunately, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, "that is not entirely the case. There is reason to believe that Malfoy or Selwyn might attempt to attack her."

Neville, too, had come forward to listen. "What's Malfoy after Hermione for?" said Neville sharply, looking very much as he had during the Battle. Professor Snape, appearing to notice him for the first time, now eyed him with an expression of utmost loathing.

"If anybody thought it was _remotely_ your business, Longbottom, you'd already know," he said, his tone far more unpleasant than usual, even for his dealings with Neville.

Neville, for his part, scowled back, in a most un-Neville-like manner. "I'll stay here too, then. Harry and I will look after her, if you don't trust her to defend herself."

"The only person I do not trust, Longbottom, is you," he said coldly, looking angrier than ever.

"The house is warded," said Harry, "secret-kept—"

"Wards can be broken, Potter."

"You're being unreasonable, Severus," broke in Professor McGonagall. "They _are_ warded. It's not as secure as Hogwarts, I grant you—"

"Therefore, Hogwarts is the better option."

"—But I believe it is well enough warded to protect Hermione from Malfoy and Selwyn, especially as nobody but we in this room would be aware of her presence here."

"It's Hermione's choice in the end," said Harry, turning his attention fully on her. She looked around at their expectant faces, feeling in her sleeve for her useless wand. Between the wards and Harry and Neville's protection, she guessed she'd probably be safe, but it frightened her terribly to be out in the world with enemies abroad and no way to defend herself. She glanced at Professor Snape, but he was looking moodily at Neville and completely ignoring her.

Yes, she was frightened, but she was also a Gryffindor. She bit her lip through one last moment of indecision and then made her choice.

"I'll stay here with Harry and Neville," she said, with much more confidence than she really felt. Harry looked triumphantly at Professor Snape, as if daring him to protest.

"It seems," he said coldly, "that my only choice will be to spend the rest of the holiday here as well."

"_What? _No!" cried Neville.

"You can't just invite yourself over to stay like that!" said Harry indignantly. "This is my house!"

"And we are discussing _her_ life!" snarled Professor Snape furiously. "It is only fitting—and, I might add, common practice—that a member of the Order keep an eye on her, given that her life is under threat."

"_We're_ members of the Order!"

"An _adult_ member, Potter."

"Enough! I'm afraid I'm going to take Professor Snape's side in this particular argument. He is, I think, correct that Miss Granger requires extra protection, and since he has so kindly volunteered, I see no reason not to give the job to him."

"This is utter bollocks," growled Harry.

"Watch your language," snapped Hermione. "Professor McGonagall's head of the Order, Harry. If she says Professor Snape ought to stay, then we can either go back to Hogwarts without the Dursleys, or we can stay here—all of us."

"Hermione!"

"I'm too tired to argue about this. It's stupid. And if Professor Snape says that I'm in that much danger, then—then he's probably right." For someone who thought Professor Snape might be a member of the family, Harry was being ridiculously fractious about the matter.

"Miss Granger, I think it would be helpful for Harry if he understood why it is that Professor Snape feels that you need additional protection," said Professor McGonagall gently.

This was it, then--the moment of truth. She sighed and pulled her wand slowly out of her sleeve.

"_Avis_," she said softly. At first, nothing happened. Then a thin golden vapor began to come out of the wand tip and shape itself into a bird. For a moment of brief, shining hope, it looked as though it might actually become solid, but then the still-translucent figure shuddered and faded into nothing.

"Hermione," said Neville slowly, "what's happened?"

"I thought it would be obvious," she answered, in a falsely bright voice. "I just can't really do magic anymore. Nothing too important."

"But… why?" asked Harry, frowning.

"I don't know," she said nastily. "It _might_ have something to do with seeing my parents murdered and tortured in front of me because I was daft enough to go see them after my boyfriend called me a mudblood, due to the fact that he wasn't the one who got to take my virginity."

Harry and Neville both winced. "Fair point," muttered Harry. "Is it… permanent?"

She shrugged, putting her wand back in her sleeve with a sigh. "Professor Snape and Madame Pomfrey say not."

"Indeed," said Professor Snape. "In fact, in Miss Granger's case it might be considered an encouraging sign that she will cope well with recent events."

"Encouraging?" said Harry incredulously. "How could it be encouraging for Hermione to have lost her magic?"

"Merlin," said Neville softly. "I can't imagine. Hermione, are you—how are you feeling about it? Can I do anything for you?"

"I'm _fine_," she lied, "and no."

"Now, as I have said, if you insist on staying in… this place for the next four days, I will remain as well."

Professor McGonagall sighed. "It's up to you and Miss Granger, in the end. Make your decision, Potter. I have other things to do today."

"Can we have a minute to talk about it?"

Hermione took Harry and Neville each by the arm and pulled them toward the door. "Kitchen, Harry. We can talk it over in there."

Once they were safely in the kitchen and Hermione was beginning the washing-up that Mrs. Weasley had, for once, left undone, Harry immediately threw himself into a chair and scowled.

"What do you want to do, Harry?" she asked, with just a touch of impatience. "You can't bring the Dursleys to Hogwarts."

"I don't know," he said angrily. "I promised I'd spend at least some of the holiday with them, Hermione, and I haven't. We've only just started to get along and I don't want to ruin things. But having _Snape_ stay here--"

"Professor Snape," she snapped. "And I don't know what you're so upset about. One moment you're trying to find out if he's your--"

"Hermione!" Harry jerked his head significantly in the direction of the door.

"Fine. But you know what I'm talking about. And the next moment you're acting just like you always did, and like nothing has ever changed when you _know_ it has, Harry."

"That isn't the point. I don't like him just inviting himself in here."

"He's right, Harry. I can't--I can't protect myself if anything happens."

"We can protect you."

"If you want to stay here, and you want me to stay with you, then you know the conditions. The decision is still up to you. If it's that important to you to spend time with the Dursleys and you don't want Professor Snape here, I'm happy to just go back to school on my own--"

"No, no," he said. "I want you here, too. It's all gone pear-shaped, hasn't it? I just wanted a Christmas with family, but now I can't have you and Ron both here at the same time, and I can't have you and the Dursleys together unless I have--"

"I'm _sorry_, alright?" she said miserably, clattering the dishes together in the sink.

"I wasn't trying to get an apology out of you, Hermione." He looked more frustrated than ever. "I just had no idea that managing family time could be so--so--"

"Utterly complicated and difficult," she agreed sympathetically. "Of course you hadn't. You've never tried it before and I don't remember you ever mentioning any family gatherings on the Dursley side except with that horrid aunt of yours that you blew up."

Neville looked up interestedly. "Harry blew up his aunt?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "Third year."

"Wow," said Neville. "I never knew that."

"Would you really rather be alone at Hogwarts, Hermione?"

Hermione wiped her hands on the front of her jeans, biting her lip hard.

"I don't know, Harry," she said, looking down to hide the sudden tears swimming in her eyes. "I don't really want to be alone, I guess, but I don't want to upset anyone, either, and I--it's just hard, without my mum and dad. You're family to me, Harry, you really are, but they were my _parents_."

"Yeah, no idea what that must be like, not having parents anymore," said Harry dryly.

"Oh Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't," he said quickly. "That isn't what I meant. Only I _do_ have an idea of what it's like for you. I didn't know my parents like you knew yours, it's true, but--but I know what it's like to not have them around anymore."

"At least your parents died," added Neville glumly. "There are worse things."

"Oh, Neville, I'm so sorry, I didn't think--"

"Stop apologizing!" said Harry. "Look, if you really want to be alone, go back to Hogwarts and it'll just be Ginny and me--and Neville, if he wants to stay," he added. "But if you don't, I wish you'd stay and I'll just put up with Snape somehow, for your sake. Hopefully he'll be so afraid of Aunt Petunia that he'll just hole up in the library with some dingy old potions book and leave us all alone."

"Professor Snape," she corrected wearily, wondering how many times she'd done that over the years. "Why the change in attitude, Harry? I'd sort of got the impression that you _wanted_ him to be--"

"Maybe," said Harry hastily, with another look at the door, "but I don't want to think about it before I know, you know? It's kind of horrible either way."

"I suppose so." She turned back to the sink, picking up a scrubbing brush, and then pushed ahead with her next thought, hoping she wouldn't be hurt in revealing yet another insecurity in front of them.

"Are you sure--are you sure that you wouldn't rather have Ron stay than me?"

"Yes," said Harry promptly. "I'm sure. He's my best mate, but he's being a git at the moment, and he needs to bloody well think about what he's done. You're already giving him less of a hard time over it than my--than some people would."

She smiled wryly. "I'd probably be more inclined to be bothered by it if I thought he was moments away from becoming a Death Eater."

"I don't know," said Harry, shrugging. "I think it's sort of worse that he's not, you know? Truth is, though, I can't say I'm completely surprised. All the pressure he's been under, knowing about Percy and having to hide it from everyone while worrying over whether he's going to come home one day and find his whole family dead because his brother's a madman--"

"Don't," she said, shuddering. "It's too awful."

"Fine. But you've got to admit, it's a fair point. So there's that, and then... between you and me, Hermione, I'm not sure he's ever quite got over everything that happened with the—you know, in the Forest of Dean."

She frowned. "Really?"

"I was there, Hermione, you don't know what it was like. Like--like Voldemort found the absolute weakest spot he had in his soul and attacked it for all he was worth. You should have seen him, Hermione. I honestly thought he might try to kill me."

For a moment she thought he was exaggerating. Then she turned to look at him and saw the deadly serious look on his face. "You mean _actually_ kill you?" she gasped.

"Yeah. His eyes got all red and--" he shuddered. "Well, it just affected him badly. He pulled through it in the end, but I don't know if he's really been able to forget it since. I sometimes wonder if he's still got some little echo of Voldemort in his head."

"You seem to have given it a lot of thought," she said, raising her eyebrows.

He had the grace to look sheepish. "It's mostly Ginny, actually. I told her everything that happened, and she reckons maybe it changed him--if not permanently then badly enough that he hasn't really got past it yet, and that's why he's been so jealous since."

She shut off the water and left the dishes, taking a seat instead and sighing miserably. "I should have thought of that. I should have noticed. If I'd known, I wouldn't have--"

"Yes you would have," said Harry stoutly, "and you should have. I don't care what happened to him, it doesn't excuse what he said, especially without hearing the whole story."

He looked at her hopefully, clearly wondering if she'd take the hint and tell the whole story to _him_.

"Harry," she said, with another look at poor Neville, who seemed increasingly aware that there wasn't a useful thing he could contribute to the conversation, "I don't want to talk about it. There's no reason that you need to know, only that it _wasn't_ Viktor Krum and it—I never lied about it to anyone."

In the end, Harry relented and they decided to stay at Grimmauld Place. Professor Snape looked particularly sour when they informed him, but he said nothing about it. He only shrugged and, as Harry had predicted, ensconced himself in the library with a book.

Two days passed, in which they avoided him as much as possible and he seemingly did the same to them. He appeared to be particularly angry with Neville, as though he blamed the entire arrangement on his presumed incompetence alone, which Hermione thought rather unfair.

"Hermione," said Harry after breakfast one morning, when they—and Ginny, who had fled from The Burrow as soon as allowed—had retreated to his bedroom, "d'you reckon we could finish that potion today?"

"You still haven't finished it?" asked Dudley in surprise. "Not in a rush, were you, Harry? If it was me, I'd have done it ages ago--right away."

"We _started_ it right away," said Harry, "but they take a long time to make, sometimes, and there's been a lot of other things going on."

"Right," said Dudley skeptically. "Got nothing to do with being scared that your mum shagged that git, Snape."

"He's not a git," said Hermione grumpily.

"Yeah, he's only an ex Death Eater who's gone all sweetness and light since he joined the Order," Dudley snorted.

Neville and Harry snickered. Hermione gave him a look that would have withered Harry or Ron on the spot. Even Dudley, for all his loutish size, looked intimidated by it.

"I'm not scared," said Harry. "I just don't much like to think of my mum being the type to go around with someone else behind my dad's back."

"Nor me, mate," agreed Dudley, "but _my_ mum shagged a Death Eater after she was married, and they _were_ sisters."

Harry looked miserable. "I know."

"Cheer up," said Neville bracingly. "That doesn't necessarily mean much. Tonks' mum is Bellatrix Lestrange's sister, and they couldn't be much more different, could they?"

"Anyway, what do you say, Hermione? Today?"

She frowned. "Don't you think it's a bit mad to try that with Professor Snape in the house?"

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "We can lock the door. He's always in the library anyway. I don't think he's paid a bit of real attention to any of us since we got here."

"True," she admitted doubtfully, wondering if the enchantment might tip him off if she tried to hide something so significant from him whilst they were in the house together. "But I can't finish it, Harry. I can't do—you know."

"Harry can," said Neville, patting her hand awkwardly. "He's really not bad at Potions, when he concentrates, and you can tell him how to do it."

"I don't think this is a good idea at all. It would be far too easy for Professor Snape to just come in here and catch us."

"Come off it, Hermione," said Dudley, "where's your sense of adventure?"

"I think I've had enough of it in the last eight years, thanks," she muttered.

"Just think how you'd feel if you had a chance to see your dad, Hermione. Wouldn't you run a few risks?" said Harry desperately. Ginny immediately smacked his arm and he blanched, realizing what he'd just said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Hermione, I'm sorry—"

"Oh, no," she said in a brittle voice. "You're quite right, Harry. I would." She was already at the door, the room growing steadily more blurry before her eyes. "I'd just—I'd like to be alone for a bit, I think," she said miserably, and then rushed out the door, slamming it behind her.

The library door was open and Hermione, assuming that Professor Snape must be somewhere else if he'd left the door open, ran headlong into the room, still half-blinded by tears… and straight into Professor Snape. He caught her awkwardly and stumbled backwards before regaining his balance. As soon as he'd got her straightened up, he drew back, looking down his nose at her with a displeased expression.

"Miss Granger," he said frostily, "I assume you have some excuse for dashing recklessly about in this manner."

She sniffed loudly and he hesitated, his expression softening somewhat. "Are you crying?" he asked uncomfortably.

"No," she said, betraying herself a moment later with a loud sob.

He fished in his robes for a moment and then pulled out a handkerchief, extending it awkwardly to her. "Wipe your eyes, girl," he said, not unkindly. "What is the matter?"

"H-Harry," she began, burying her face in the handkerchief with another loud sob.

"I see." He scowled, an almost palpable chill entering the room as he did. "What has Potter done now?"

"He said—my f-father—" she wailed, knowing she was almost completely incoherent but not caring. She couldn't tell him what they'd really been talking about in any case.

"Ah." He looked at her hesitantly and then reached out for her, curling his hand gently around her arm and guiding her towards an armchair. "I suggest that you sit down," he murmured.

But Hermione, still blinded by tears, tripped and grabbed at him to keep from falling. Utterly humiliated, she began to cry even harder, and without realizing exactly what she was doing, she buried her face in his chest, clinging to the only source of human contact available to her in the moment.

She heard a quick, hissing intake of breath as she flung herself at him and then, hesitantly, oh-so-slowly, he put his arms around her and gingerly patted her back.

"There, there," he said helplessly. "Miss Granger—Hermione, whatever Potter said, I'm sure it wasn't—that is to say, as foolish and arrogant as the boy is, I doubt that he _intended_ to upset you."

She could feel the vibrations of his voice against her cheek when he spoke, and suddenly realized that she'd thrown herself into the arms of a teacher—and not just any teacher, but Professor Snape. Blushing crimson, she pulled away abruptly and sat down in the chair, hiding her face in his handkerchief in order to cover up some of her embarrassment.

He cleared his throat, obviously just as embarrassed as she was.

"I believe I shall leave you alone," he said awkwardly. "If you would like, I shall send Kreacher with a cup of tea."

"Yes please," she sniffled, "that would be lovely."

He nodded curtly, already starting for the door. "Very well, Miss Granger."

0 0 0

Severus closed the library door behind him carefully and then leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and willing himself to forget the crying woman in the room he'd just left. What had possessed him to put his arms around her like that? To call her Hermione again, though he'd vowed not to? He straightened abruptly, brushing at his robes, and had just turned in the direction of the kitchen when he heard a voice behind him.

"Er—Professor?"

He turned, drawing himself up to his tallest and glaring. "What is it, Longbottom?" he snarled.

"I was wondering if Hermione came this way, sir. She was really upset."

He narrowed his eyes. "Library."

"Oh. Thanks, Professor."

"Just get out of my sight, Longbottom."

Longbottom opened the library door and ducked into it, shutting it hurriedly behind him, apparently as anxious to get away from Severus as Severus was anxious to get away from him. He scowled at the closing door.

It had become more than obvious to Severus in the last two days that Longbottom was harboring some very tender feelings towards Miss Granger, and he was not pleased about it in the slightest. Bad enough to be coupled to one Gryffindor for eternity, but if she ended up with Longbottom, it would truly be more than he could endure. The very thought of Neville Longbottom even touching Hermione—_Miss Granger_—made his skin crawl.

In truth, Severus still had difficulty conceiving of a lifelong connection to her. He still found himself thinking of the end of the upcoming year with a vague idea that he'd never see her again afterwards.

He did not, however, think that such an arrangement would be feasible, no matter how desirable it might be. Given the events of the last few months, he had no idea what he was going to do at the end of the coming term, but he knew that parting from her forever would not be it. Eventually, the Order would disband and he would need to come up with something—and he could hardly imagine himself stopping by her flat every so often for a cup of tea and a bit of a chat.

Worse still was the prospect of Harry inviting her to live at Grimmauld Place. The only humiliation he could imagine that would be more profound than a compulsion to keep in touch with Hermione bloody Granger for the rest of his life was if Hermione bloody Granger were living with Harry bleeding Potter.

He cast a cursory glance around the kitchen and, not seeing Kreacher, shouted his name instead. The wrinkled elf appeared immediately and gazed obsequiously up at him.

"What is Professor Snape requiring of Kreacher?" he murmured, bowing low.

"Miss Granger is in the library and feeling… distraught, Kreacher. She would like you to fetch her a cup of tea."

The elf knit his brows together. The girl was preposterously kind to House-Elves, and Kreacher was no exception. "Kreacher will see to it immediately, Professor. Hermione Granger shall have her tea."

"Quite," he said dryly. "And if you don't mind, I'll have a cup myself."

The elf, already preparing the tea things, squeaked assent and Severus took a seat.

"Awfully solicitous of her, aren't you?" sneered Petunia from across the table. "Developing a taste for younger women, Severus?"

He raised his eyebrows calmly. "You know absolutely nothing about it, Petunia. I would suggest that you attempt not to embarrass yourself, but as you've already opened your mouth, I must concede that it's too late."

Two spots of color appeared in her cheeks and she narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing here? I wasn't aware that you and Harry were close enough to warrant spending Christmas holidays together."

"It has nothing to do with Potter," he said, wrinkling his nose with distaste at the thought, "or any putative relationship between us. One of the students requires extra protection. I volunteered." Never mind _why_ he volunteered, as he couldn't answer that.

"Oh really?" she said, giving him a searching look as though waiting for him to betray something. He frowned at her. "I thought there might be something else," she said.

"What on earth are you talking about, Petunia?"

She smiled nastily. "Nothing at all, apparently."

He toyed with the idea of using Legilimency on her. She was a notorious gossip, after all—but he couldn't begin to imagine anything she might have discovered about him. Even listening at doors, nothing had transpired to give her any reason to act as though she knew some sort of secret about him.

Kreacher set a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits before him and then, picking up a tray, he disappeared. Petunia, in spite of the fact that she must have known it was coming, jumped at the loud noise it made. Severus simply picked up his teacup and opened _The Daily Prophet_, ignoring her.

"Severus," she said when he was halfway down page five (Ministry Malfeasance: More Delays in Malfoy Trial). He glanced up, favoring her with his most antisocial glower.

"Yes, Petunia?" he asked frostily.

"I'd like to ask you a—a favor," she said. From the unpleasant twist around her mouth, it didn't take a spy to recognize that the very thought of asking him for anything galled her. That cheered him up slightly and he set the paper down on the table, gazing at her with false solicitude.

"Of course, Petunia," he said with malicious sweetness. "You need only name it."

Her face grew even more pinched-looking. "Don't play that game with me, Severus. I knew you back when you were still practicing it in the mirror."

"I believe you were about to ask me a favor. You might be interested to know that insulting me does not increase my inclination to perform it, whatever it might be."

"I read the paper," she said, ignoring his comment. "Lucius is on trial."

He kept his face carefully impassive, but doubted very much that he'd be pleased with whatever it was she planned to ask him. "Yes," he said guardedly, "he is. If you recall, I informed you that he would be."

"I'd like to see him."

He blinked slowly and took a sip of his tea before replying. "Why?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," she snapped.

"Petunia, if you expect me to get you in to Azkaban to visit a known Death Eater who I have personally witnessed in the act of torturing and murdering dozens of people, you _will_ give me a reason for it."

"Wouldn't you visit Lily?"

She smirked at him, obviously expecting him to flinch at the mention of her sister's name. He merely clenched his teeth for a moment, however, and then raised his eyebrows again. "Surely you aren't comparing the two situations. I was in love with Lily, and she was most certainly not a Death Eater."

"No," agreed Petunia acidly, "she left that bit to you."

"As I myself informed you."

"I'd like to talk to him, Severus, before he's sentenced."

"About what?"

"Personal matters," she snapped.

"You will not have a private audience with him. It isn't done, especially not with the dangerous criminals."

She frowned, but she didn't back down. "Fine. I'll talk to him in front of witnesses. Can you arrange it?"

"And what do you propose to give me in exchange for this? My reputation at the Ministry is still somewhat… unstable, in certain circles. I have already risked it for one Malfoy. I do not relish the idea of drawing any more attention to myself in connection with that family."

She sat back, giving him a long, appraising look. "I have a letter—to you, from Lily."

His self-control did not hold up quite as well as he'd wished, and his hand shook, spilling tea into the saucer as the teacup rattled against it. "You're lying," he said softly.

"I was next of kin, Severus. Your Ministry people sent me all her things."

"She never wrote to me," he whispered.

"She never _sent_ what she wrote."

He swallowed slowly. "Petunia," he said warningly, "if you are lying to me—"

"I'm not lying."

"Why did you never send it to me before?"

She arched one eyebrow. "To begin with, I had no idea where to find you."

"The letter already belongs to me, Petunia. Find some other bargaining chip."

"I don't think so, Severus," she said, fixing her eyes on him with a nasty smile. "As she never sent it, the letter belongs to _me_. Nothing requires me to give it to you."

"Very well," he said coolly. "I will do what I can to get you to Azkaban. I warn you, though, I doubt you will like what you find there."

"That's my own business," she snapped. "Not yours."

He allowed himself a dim smile, burying his curiosity and pain over the letter as best he could. "Amusing, the way that it is only you whose 'business', as you put it, remains sacrosanct in your view."

"I beg your pardon?"

He picked up his tea cup once again. "You are a gossip and a shrew, Petunia, and it surprises me not at all that you still think fondly of a man like Lucius Malfoy, even knowing what he is."

0 0 0

It took Hermione the better part of an hour to calm down and allow that Harry was simply being Harry and hadn't maliciously set out to hurt her feelings. The very fact that the idea had occurred to her in the first place rather surprised her, as she'd never thought that sort of thing about him before. It reminded her uneasily of Professor Snape, and she firmly resolved not to think about it.

She shared tea with Neville, who chatted to her about Herbology and Potions until Harry, Ginny and Dudley came to ask after her.

"I'm sorry," said Harry for the sixth or seventh time, once they'd coaxed her back into his bedroom and she'd settled herself on his bed to watch him play Dudley at Gobstones.

"It's fine, Harry. I know you didn't mean it."

"Still, Ginny's been harassing me to be more thoughtful and then I went and put my foot in it."

She smiled. "At least you tried. That's more than I ever got Ron to do."

"So… you and Ron are split up for good, you think?" asked Neville casually. He was lying on his stomach, his head propped on his hands as he watched the Gobstones game. Dudley had taken to it remarkably well and Harry, who had never cared for it much, was losing spectacularly.

Ginny looked at her questioningly, and Hermione shrugged. "Probably. To be honest, it's a bit of a relief. This is the longest we've gone without a fight in simply ages."

Harry grunted. "Pretty nice for those of us who had to be around the two of you, to be honest. Granted, it's a bit more complicated now given that you're not speaking, but I've been through that before. Can't last forever."

"Oh just wait and see," said Ginny darkly. "I bet it can."

"It won't," said Hermione simply. "But it will be a while."

The conversation lagged for a few minutes as they watched Dudley beat Harry quite soundly and, with a smirk, collect the Galleon that they'd bet on the game.

"Hermione?" said Harry cautiously after the Gobstones were put away. "Have you thought any more about whether you'd be willing to—"

"Yes," she said hastily. "I have. I really don't like it, Harry, but what you said… I didn't like it, but it's the truth. And I understand."

"I'll distract him, if you'd like," offered Ginny. Nobody needed to ask who she meant.

"Brave of you," said Dudley, shaking his head. "Say what you like about him turning to the light side or whatever it was he did, but he's scary, that one."

"I know what you mean," agreed Neville fervently.

"Tell you what, Gin," said Harry. "We'll have Kreacher watch for him, and if he starts coming this way, you can go head him off and get him to go somewhere else."

"You think that will work?" asked Hermione doubtfully, wrinkling her nose.

"'Course it will," said Harry.

Dudley rubbed his hands together gleefully. "All right! When do we get started?"

"Now, I guess," said Hermione, biting her lip.

"Kreacher!" shouted Harry. Kreacher appeared, bowing low and then simpering fondly at Harry.

"Master called Kreacher?" he asked, gazing at Harry with a lovelorn expression that reminded Hermione painfully of Dobby. They'd warmed up considerably to one another, even in the last six months, and Harry seemed to be coming to regard Kreacher as a member of the family. It rather made up for the fact that Kreacher was actually Harry's possession, in Hermione's mind.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Kreacher, can you watch Snape for us?"

"Master wishes Kreacher to watch him only?"

He nodded. "You only need to watch him, and tell us if he starts to come toward this room, all right? Make sure you tell us early enough that we can send Ginny out to distract him. And don't let him see you."

Kreacher bowed low to the ground. "Kreacher will watch the Professor for Master Harry. Kreacher is happy to serve him."

Harry grinned. "Thanks, Kreacher."

With a soppy smile, Kreacher disappeared. Dudley looked for a moment at the spot that he'd just vacated. "Blimey," he sighed. "Wish I could do that."

"Nah," said Ginny, tossing him a chocolate frog. "There's too much of you."

"That's got Snape taken care of," said Harry. "I moved it to my room, Hermione, so we've got everything we need here, yeah?"

"Yes," said Hermione, frowning at the door. "Are you sure you want to do this now?"

"I'm sure," said Harry firmly. "We'll be fine. Kreacher's keeping an eye out for us and if anybody can distract Snape, Ginny can. Just as long as you don't take your shirt off, Gin," he added.

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Cheeky."

Hermione sighed. "Well, get it out, then. Ginny, can you conjure a fire?"

Wands were drawn and, as Ginny conjured the fire, Harry got out the small cauldron and vials of blood, and Neville carefully cleared the floor. Dudley got up on the bed and sat beside Hermione and both of them watched. Her hands itched to pull out her wand and help, but the temptation to try was beginning to be outweighed by the fear of failure, and she left it where it was.

"All right, now you need to keep close watch on it while it heats. It needs to be exactly blood temperature," she said, peering down at the cauldron while Harry, Ginny and Neville all worked over it.

A few minutes later, Harry breathlessly announced that the temperature was correct. Hermione felt a swell of excitement and anxiety, her heart beginning to beat faster.

"Now, Ginny, you need to cut your hair. Seven strands, seven inches long."

"What happens if the person doing the spell can only find a virgin with short hair?" asked Dudley curiously. Everyone looked at him.

"Never thought of that," said Harry thoughtfully.

"I suppose you'd just apply a stretching charm to the hair," said Hermione after a moment. "But I really don't know, Dudley. Good question."

"Right," said Ginny, having cut the hairs and measured them carefully with a charm. "Now what?"

"Put them into the cauldron one at a time."

Without noticing it, Hermione had crept closer and closer to them, until she was at the very edge of the bed. Neville, looking over at her, moved aside slightly.

"Come stand over here, Hermione. You can see better."

She slid off the bed and walked over beside Neville, peering over Ginny's shoulder as the red-gold hairs fell, one by one, into the potion. It began to swirl about and, as the last hair disappeared beneath the surface, it turned milky-white.

"If I'd done that, it would have melted the cauldron," commented Hermione dryly. "It's a good thing you weren't lying, Ginny."

"Of course I wasn't," said Ginny, chuckling. "Mum would _kill_ me, no matter how tempting Harry is."

Dudley made a face. "If we could keep that sort of talk about Harry to a minimum, I wouldn't complain."

"Shut it, Dud," said Harry, whose face was quite red.

"Now," said Hermione, "first thing you need is blood from your family, Harry. That's your Aunt Petunia."

Harry picked up the small vial, holding it in his palm and looking down at it.

"Dudley," he said suddenly, "d'you want to do it?"

"What?" said Dudley, blinking stupidly. "Me? I can't do magic."

"It isn't magic, you prat, it's just dumping a bit of blood into a cauldron. He can do that, can't he, Hermione?"

She shrugged. "If he wants to. Actually, it might even be more powerful that way, as it's his mother."

Dudley, looking awed, slid off the bed and took the proffered vial, uncorking it with excessive care and then holding it over the cauldron in one trembling hand.

"All of it?" he asked anxiously.

"All of it," said Hermione. "Just pour it in, it's all right. Harry, when he does, give it seven clockwise stirs, one counter-clockwise, and seven more clockwise."

Dudley dumped the blood into the cauldron. Harry began to stir immediately in even, measured strokes, taking far more care with this than he ever had in Potions class. After a moment, the Potion turned from white to a pale gray-pink.

"Now, Harry, you keep stirring. Ginny, you add P—you add _his_ blood," she said, unwilling to say his name, out of a superstitious fear that he might hear her somehow.

Ginny uncorked the second bottle, pouring it into the cauldron and watching intensely, as they all were. As soon as the blood touched it, it turned a deep, emerald green. Hermione thought it was the most beautiful color she'd ever seen and for a moment she simply stared at it, holding her breath.

"Hermione?" said Neville, nudging her gently.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Ginny, can you take over stirring?"

Ginny nodded and Harry passed the stirring rod to her. She kept her focus on the cauldron. Everyone else looked up expectantly at Hermione.

"This is it, Harry," she said softly. "Last chance to back down."

"No," said Harry. "I'm going to do it."

She bit her lip. "All right. Neville—you need to cut him."

"What? Why me?"

"Because Ginny's stirring, I can't use magic, and Harry can't do it himself in this instance. You've got to use your wand. Just a small cut, across his left arm. Harry, hold your arm over the cauldron. Wait—no, don't do it yet, Neville. Harry, keep your wand out. Neville, tip of your wand on his arm. No, higher up. More to the outside. _No_, Neville, _here_." She leaned forward, positioning the tip of his wand properly in the crook of Harry's elbow.

She pulled her own wand out. "Now, Harry, the minute that he draws blood, you need to move your wand like this over the cauldron and say _in sanguen veritas_."

"Can you show me that again?" said Harry, furrowing his brow. Hermione, trying not to think too hard about the fact that she ought to be doing it herself, demonstrated the wand movement several times, until Harry could mimic it to her satisfaction.

"Is everybody ready?" she asked, looking around. Ginny, still stirring the potion, nodded in an absorbed sort of way. Dudley took a step back. Harry and Neville were both quite white, and Hermione was sure that she was as well. "Ginny, you have to stir for a full sixty seconds once the blood is in the potion, or it won't work."

Ginny nodded again. Harry and Neville each took a deep breath and then both began to move their wands at the same time. Blood welled over Harry's arm and he spoke the incantation just as, with a loud _crack_, Kreacher appeared in the room.

"Master!" he cried urgently, "the Professor is coming, sir, looking for Miss Hermione!"

"Ginny!" said Dudley. "You've got to go!"

Harry's arm jerked. "_No!_ She's got to keep stirring!"

"Harry, he's going to come in here!"

"Kreacher, lock the door!"

But before anyone could act, the door creaked open and Professor Snape's head appeared. He pushed on the door, which swung wide until it hit the wall. For a minute, he simply stared, apparently uncomprehending.

Hermione winced, imagining the scene through his eyes—all of them gathered around a cauldron in the middle of the floor, Ginny still stirring it, Neville's wand still resting on Harry's arm, from which blood was dripping steadily into the cauldron. The potion was beginning to swirl again and turn inky black. His eyes moved over them, taking in the empty vials of blood, the hairs that Ginny had cut too short and left lying on the floor.

His mouth opened, but at first no sound came out. Then, in his most dangerous undertone, he hissed: "Weasley—Longbottom—Dursley—get out, _now_."

They didn't need to be told twice. All three of them scrambled to their feet and made their escape. Harry, pressing his palm into his bleeding arm, stared down at the potion.

"_Verus Ortus,_" said Professor Snape softly. It was not a question.

Harry, still very pale, nodded, his mouth firmly closed.

Professor Snape's eyes moved to the cauldron again and something flickered oddly in them, an emotion Hermione couldn't decipher before it was gone again.

"Given your… interrogation of me during the summer, I suppose I need not ask who it is you have been inquiring about. Tell me, Potter, does your prowess extend to interpreting the results of your investigation, or did you plan to leave that to Miss Granger as you do so many other things?"

"I—it turned black," whispered Harry. "I don't know what that means."

Professor Snape looked at Hermione, who could not meet his eyes. After everything she'd already done, she couldn't imagine how disappointed he'd be in her now.

"It means, Potter, that you are not my son." He swallowed, and his face suddenly twitched as though in pain.

"My son is dead."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** If it were me reading without knowing where this is going, I would probably think that this was the worst cliffhanger yet in the story. I humbly apologize, and will do my best to write chapter 45 very quickly. 

Infinite thanks to Renita, for suggesting the letter as a bargaining chip. Thanks to all the ladies on YIM who have cheered me along.

And of course, as always, thanks to my readers and reviewers.


	45. The Little Prince

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 45: The Little Prince**

* * *

Severus retained enough presence of mind to close and lock the door behind him. Harry's eyes darted furtively between Severus and the door, clearly wondering how much ill that action boded. 

"Bind up that ridiculous wound, boy," he snarled. "Miss Granger, clear up this mess. Ah—wait," he said, his tone as cutting as he could make it, "you _can't_. _Evanesco_!"

He pointed his wand at the cauldron and the black potion inside of it disappeared.

"Put the cauldron away, girl. Potter, sit up like a man. If you want information badly enough to brew restricted potions under my very nose, you'll sit straight when you get your wish. Where's the famed Gryffindor courage now, boy?"

Hermione, her cheeks aflame, grabbed the cauldron and whisked it away somewhere, slipping the emptied vials into her pocket, apparently oblivious of the droplets of blood still clinging to the inside of them. Harry stood up, his hand still clutching the cut on his arm, from which blood dripped slowly.

"Harry," said Hermione in a tight, anxious voice, producing a bandage from another pocket and thrusting it at him, "you can't heal it by magic. Let go and hold your arm out."

Harry, never looking away from Severus, dropped his hand to his side and let Hermione take his arm. She bound it tightly and quickly. She kept her eyes as steadily averted from him as Harry's were fixed.

"At least it is a relief to know that Miss Granger always comes prepared for every situation," he sneered.

"This wasn't her idea," said Harry gallantly, although it wasn't strictly true. "She shouldn't get in trouble for this. She didn't want to do—"

"Then she would have done well to stay away and let you deal with your own messes, Potter. Miss Granger, as you, too, were so obviously keen to discover all of the secrets of Potter's primogeniture, you will hear the full story as well."

She recoiled slightly, her cheeks growing even redder, the flush spreading into her chin and forehead as well. It infuriated him that she was still keeping to her role as Harry's hanger-on and co-conspirator. She was better than that—far better. Well, let her suffer for it. If she wanted to know so badly, she would listen and be burdened by it just as he was. He'd avoided the subject with her thus far, in spite of his worry that it might add yet another piece of emotional dead weight to those which already burdened her.

It had never occurred to him that Harry might seriously believe Severus could be his father. In retrospect, he didn't know _why_ it hadn't. When Harry had asked in the summertime, Severus had been irritated, had simply assumed it was a cruel joke, meant only to rub his face once more in the fact that Lily had married James and not him. It would have been the sort of thing James would say, a nasty jab at a wound that had, at the time, still not healed.

Had it healed now? He'd had six months free of her, free of his unwitting bondage to her. And yet his memories still caused a sense of loss that ached in his chest with a physical pain.

He clenched his jaw tightly, watching as they hastily cleared away the last remnants of the _Verus Ortus_ (and he didn't believe for a moment that it was Harry who'd come up with the idea of using it), he was unsure of his own mind. As Lily's son, he supposed that Harry had a right to know—in much the same way that as an orphan, he probably had a right to search for a father, much as Severus had. It was almost unfortunate that Severus hadn't the wonderful excuse that Harry had for doing so.

That didn't mean that he had to be kind in the telling. The boy would hear it all, and for the first time he'd have a picture of his mother than wasn't sugar coated. He was obviously old enough to be capable of thinking ill of her without anyone else's help or influence. Severus did not mind disillusioning him further. The time was past for coddling.

"Stop moving about," he said irritably. "Sit still. Potter. Have you never heard the story of Pandora's Box? If you are so desperate to learn about your mother's supposed infidelities, I will satisfy your seemingly boundless curiosity."

Harry shook his head briefly and confusedly at the mention of the legend. Hermione retained enough presence of mind that she could roll her eyes in exasperation when he did. For a brief moment it made Severus want to smile—it was so very typical of her. He almost expected her to raise her hand. Then Harry took his attention again, and all of his fury returned in full force.

"You know," he said frostily as he put his wand away, "due to what I have already… shared with you, that your mother was my best friend. She was—" he nearly choked on the words "—she was a beautiful child, and we met when I was very young.

"It was only natural that I… developed a growing affection for her, as we grew older. I was not well-liked. Nor was she, in fact, until our sixth year, as much as that may surprise you to learn after all you've been told by your father's revisionist friends," he said bitterly. "The other members of her House did not look kindly on her close friendship with a poverty-stricken, dirty half-blood who also happened to be the whipping-boy of choice for Potter, Black, and Lupin. She was generally regarded as a pariah, and we were all the closer for it."

Harry opened his mouth as if to exclaim in disbelief but Hermione, wisely, elbowed him in the ribs before he could and he snapped his mouth shut again. Severus scowled.

"Regardless, even your mother was not immune to James Potter's so-called _charms_, as I knew well before she herself discovered it." He closed his eyes for a moment. He'd had so many years to mull over the mistakes he'd made, the ways he'd misread her. Sometimes it seemed to him that only his jealousy, in the end, had been accurate.

"Most of our fellow students were merely surprised that she _tolerated_ me for as long as she did," he sneered. "She was known for her pathetic desire to coddle and mother those less fortunate than herself, much as Miss Granger is, but she did no more real good than you have, girl, and at least as much harm."

Harry scowled and finally looked away from him. Hermione had pressed her lips together to stop them trembling. Merlin, he was making her _cry_. The ache already pressing so heavily on his chest gave a particularly painful throb, and yet he went on, unable to stop himself from wresting away Potter's illusions about his mother's supposed innocence and virtue.

"For all of her so-called kindness, she was as vindictive and unforgiving as any Slytherin at times. As punishment for a single… misdeed… we did not speak to each other throughout our sixth year. I had my own friends by then--friends who, I confess, Lily had… disliked. Perhaps that was why I clung so closely to them. I'm sure it was why she attached herself so thoroughly to Potter. In all her life, it was the most openly vengeful thing she ever did."

"I don't believe you," said Harry loudly, unable to control himself any longer. "My mum loved my dad. Her Patronus even changed—"

He smiled cruelly, although he was unsure if the cruelty was directed at Harry or at himself. "The heart is deceitful above all things, Potter. Anybody will believe a lie if they repeat it often enough. Weasley's revelation of a few days ago ought to have convinced you of that."

"It wasn't a lie!"

"No," he said bitterly, furiously, "by the end I'm sure it wasn't. In the beginning, however, I assure you that it _was_. Lily loved _me_." He'd clung to that painful knowledge so bitterly for so long, read it in her own handwriting again and again until the parchment disintegrated. Now, looking into Harry's earnest, angry face, he wondered for the first time if she'd lied to him about that, as well.

"Our last two years of school we spent well apart. Had we not competed fiercely for top marks in Potions, I might have believed that we ignored one another completely. She took up with Potter and his lackeys. I… went my own way."

"To the Death Eaters," muttered Harry.

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes, Potter, to the Death Eaters," he sneered, "although not with as much alacrity as you evidently assume. Not all of us have the choices in life that have been offered to you."

"You think I've had _choices_?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Where have you bloody been, Snape? Do you even have eyes?"

"Harry!" hissed Hermione through her teeth, "shut up!"

"Indeed, Potter, as Miss Granger so inelegantly put it—_shut up_."

Harry scowled angrily. "Get on with your story, Snape."

"For an of-age wizard who I could report for brewing restricted potions, Potter, you're being surprisingly disrespectful," he spat. "Not that it surprises me, but one might have thought that you'd have learned some modicum of diplomacy during your… adventures."

"If you want me to be polite to you, stop insulting my mother!"

"YOU insult her, Potter!" he roared, unable to contain himself any longer. "You insult her by every action you have taken today, from the potion that you brewed to the way in which you speak to me now! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You _will_ listen to this story, boy, and you will listen to it the way that I choose to tell it. The next time you're tempted to open your foolish mouth, remember that you brought this upon yourself!"

"I'm sorry, sir," mumbled Harry in a sullen undertone. Severus chose to ignore it.

"I did not speak with her again until the end of our seventh year," he continued slowly, remembering. "She… came to me, unexpectedly. Potter was already gone away on the early train." The memory of it seemed to drain away his fury with Harry. He could only feel so many powerful emotions at once, and his grief over his memories was returning strongly enough to make everything else fade.

He paused for several long moments, staring at Harry's eyes and remembering Lily's, how they had dilated with pleasure and desire as she lay beneath him.

When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady at first. "She told me that she loved me. I… begged her to leave James. But she couldn't. She'd promised, and she wouldn't break her word, not for a Death Eater like me. Oh yes," he added grimly, "I was a Death Eater by then. Lucius Malfoy carried great tales of my… talents to the Dark Lord and he was willing to recruit me earlier than most. Lily had already abandoned me. My parents were dead. I had nothing to lose."

Hermione had lowered her eyes, her lips still trembling as though she was only seconds away from dissolving into tears.

"I did not—" he paused and swallowed slowly "—I did not know that—" Merlin, it was difficult to say this to the boy, to tell him about such intimate things "--Your mother was a brilliant witch in some ways, Potter, but she—she always assured me that she simply forgot the contraception charm. I mistakenly assumed at the time that she had remembered, and so took no precautions of my own."

Harry paled. Paper-white as he was at that moment, with his thick, unruly shock of black hair falling over his eyes, Severus could see why he might have wondered at least momentarily about his paternity. They did bear some resemblance to each other, as much as he hated admitting it.

"Nearly two months later, I was—I lived in Diagon Alley, working at a small apothecary. It is no longer there. I received an owl from your—from Lily. She informed me that she was… with child, and that I was the blackguard who had burdened her with her condition, as her precious Potter was, for all of his habitual lechery, unwilling to sully her before their wedding day. She swore that our… liaison had not been part of her plan in coming to see me. She was merely caught up in the moment, you might say." His face twisted into a bitter half-smile.

"But there was no denying the consequences of her—of _our _actions. I wrote back to her immediately. I asked her to come to me. I loved her, Potter—" he choked over the words, hardly able to believe that he was saying them to James Potter's son, of all people.

"At first, she refused. She'd seen my Mark. She knew what I was, and who I served, and she abhorred me for it. She wrote merely out of her sense that she was obligated to tell me what had happened—and to berate me for what I'd done for her," he said harshly. "She intended to destroy the child. She even hinted that I might brew the necessary potions for her in order to ensure that her secret would remain as safe as possible."

Harry looked appalled. "She wouldn't do that."

"Oh, I assure you, she _would_. She held none of the pureblood ideals about children and childbirth. How could she? Muggles know nothing of the sacred magic between mother and child—magic which, incidentally, saved your life." The thought twisted in his heart like a knife.

"I wrote to her again and begged her not to do it. I offered her everything I had. My life. My very soul. I swore to risk my very life in leaving the Dark Lord's service, even to flee the country if need be, for the sake of her and the child. And through all this, she was preparing for her marriage to the one man I hated more than any other.

"We exchanged letters every day for a month. I pleaded with her. Even when she agreed to keep the child, I persisted, insisting that she come to me herself as well. I confess, I could not bear the thought of James Potter pretending to have sired my own child. As… easy as it might have been for his offspring to be confused with mine, and so for her _mistake_ to be hidden," he said, casting a disdainful glance at Harry again, "I was not willing to countenance it."

He stared at the wall, memories overtaking him once more. How many letters he'd written to her. Every owl that tapped its beak at the window of the apothecary's shop had nearly stopped his heart. Until that glorious day—

"Did she—did she… end it?" whispered Hermione hesitantly. He started, his focus returning abruptly to the present.

"End it?" he said vaguely, wondering for a moment what she meant. "No, she did not end it, Miss Granger. By dint of great perseverance and self-debasement, I finally prevailed upon her to allow me to undertake to support both her and the child. She agreed to come and live with me. She promised to leave James Potter and marry me instead, as I had begged her to do for so long."

"My mum agreed to marry you?" asked Harry, shocked.

His lip curled. "Indeed, Potter. Given your _eagerness_ to discover whether I might be your father, I'm surprised by your horror at the idea."

"It isn't that, only—well, nobody ever said—"

"Nobody knew," he said tersely. "Gryffindor she might have been, but she was… tender-hearted and occasionally, as a result, a coward. She told me she could not bear to injure Potter to his face, and I believed her, fool that I was. It was to remain a secret. She planned to come and join me and leave a letter behind to explain to him what she'd—what _we'd_ done."

He closed his eyes, leaning against the bedpost wearily. "I arranged it all. We had almost no money between us—just enough to pay for a Portkey to America and a few months' rent while we established ourselves there. We agreed that when the Dark Lord was defeated, we would return to Britain so the child could attend Hogwarts. She felt sure it would take less than eleven years. She was correct, as you know, although she scarcely could have anticipated that she would be the cause of his downfall.

"We agreed to meet in Diagon Alley and Apparate from there to the Ministry to take the Portkey. She asked me to wait for her at Flourish and Blotts. I packed up my few belongings and withdrew my pathetic store of galleons from Gringotts."

He paused again, remembering the warmth of the sunshine on his face as he'd walked the short distance from Gringotts to the book shop—his last moment of true happiness for so many years.

"I arrived early, in the hope that she might do the same. I knew she was not as eager as I to leave the country and start anew, but I had… hoped—" he faltered "—I had hoped that as the moment drew near she might feel some of the same enthusiasm for the idea as I did. She did… look forward to the birth of our child, in spite of her initial consternation over his conception. She wrote to me of it, and I permitted myself to hope that her joy in the child might ameliorate her concerns about abandoning everything we knew for the sake of his safety and well-being.

"I waited, like a fool, even purchasing a book she'd long coveted as a wedding gift for her, though we could scarcely afford it. I was a familiar sight at the shop, nobody thought to question me when I remained there for an hour and longer. Oh yes, longer," he said, tasting the bitterness of the memory on his tongue. "The first ten minutes I granted her. She might have had trouble getting away. She might even have had difficulty locating quill and parchment with which to write the letter she intended to leave for Potter."

Hermione _was_ crying now, silently, her eyes fixed on his face with a look of such pity that for a moment his throat seemed to close up completely and he couldn't get any more words from it. He forced himself to look away.

"Through the first half-hour, I continued to make excuses for her. A dozen things might have kept her away…" he trailed off, feeling a most unwelcome prickling in his eyes.

"How long did you wait?" breathed Hermione, sniffling.

He met her gaze for the first time and by the way she recoiled and the tears that immediately filled her eyes again, he knew she'd seen probably more, even, than he intended her to. She'd probably felt it as well, he supposed, sighing at the reminder and waiting until he'd calmed his mind once more before he continued. He'd let his Occlumency slip so many times since all of this had begun. No wonder his self-control was so diminished now. Surely nothing but the girl's influence could have led to this moment.

"They sent me away at ten o'clock that night, when Flourish and Blotts closed," he said in a tortured whisper. "I returned to my room above the shop… I had not given notice, as we wished to rouse no suspicion about our plans. I intended to go and search for her. There was an owl waiting for me at my window. _Her _owl. A snowy owl, I remember, it was distinctive. Her parents bought it for her as a graduation gift. They said it was… appropriate to her name, to have a white owl." A white owl, lingering outside his window in the darkness like a ghost. Lily—asphodel. Death.

"My mum had a snowy owl?" said Harry.

"Yes, Potter," he snapped, irritated again. "Just like your own precious pet, was it not? The similarities between the two of you are obviously, therefore, boundless."

"That isn't what I meant, only—"

"Harry," said Hermione harshly, "just stop talking already."

Harry stopped and Severus pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, sighing heavily. "She wrote to me," he said very slowly, "to inform me that she would not be meeting me—that day, or ever.

"She wrote that the child was… dead. Not by her hand," he added swiftly, seeing the horrified look that immediately appeared on Hermione's face. "She had come to desire its birth as much as I did, I believe. But it was—there was nothing to be done. Some things cannot be saved, even by magic. I believe it was the first time she really understood that," he murmured.

"She said she had no wish to see me ever again, no wish to be reminded of what had transpired and what _she_ had lost," he sneered. "In the end, it was the child she had come to value and not I. She begged me never to tell James, and they were… married, shortly thereafter."

He met Harry's eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. "I had a son, Potter," he said slowly. "He is buried in a small garden several miles away from my home at Spinner's End, behind the house where your maternal grandparents lived, and where your mother herself lived until she and James Potter were married."

"I had an older brother?" said Harry, looking shell-shocked.

"A half-brother," he said with halfhearted malice, "who ceased to be, very soon after he began." Who died, just as everything and everyone he'd touched had died: his mother, Lily, their son, Albus—he gripped the bedpost tightly.

"If I had the slightest reason to believe that you were my child, Potter, do you think I would have allowed your father's ridiculous friends to perpetuate the notion that you were not?" he sneered. So sorry to disappoint you, but your mother, in spite of her one _indiscretion_, was faithful to her husband. Your mother was not the angel that Black and Lupin let you imagine her to be, but neither was she the whore you seem to picture her as now."

"I do not! You're still in love with her," said Harry angrily, clenching his fists. Severus flinched. "How can you talk about her like this?"

"Because if you are so fatuously insistent on finding answers, I will give them to you—_all_ of them, and you will know the events as they really transpired," he snarled. "In for a knut, in for a galleon, Potter. You wanted information. Get used to the idea that you might not like it when you receive it."

"If this is true, why didn't you tell me? Why not show me those memories with the rest? Why hide them from me? I know you've always hated me," said Harry savagely. "You thought you were dying. Why not take the opportunity to—to—"

"Because Albus Dumbledore enjoined me not to do so. He felt it would do you no good to know the whole truth at the time. I expected it to die with me," he admitted blandly. "Would that it had, but her son, like his father, would insist on ferreting out things that were none of his business.

"And yes, I hated you," he said angrily. "Bad enough to be the Boy Who Lived, to be worshiped by all of the Wizarding world when your mother should have been the one who was celebrated. The only woman I loved died for _you_, and was never even acknowledged properly for it," he said bitterly. "But that was not punishment enough to me for my actions, oh no, not enough to lose both my son and his mother. It still remained to be forced to teach the brat that James Potter sired on her and find her—her eyes in his face every time I turned around and hints of her handwriting on every parchment you turned in."

"You still love her?" said Hermione, clasping her hands together, her eyes shining.

He paused, the habitual, ready answer on the very tip of his tongue. He looked at Harry again, tracing the familiar lines of the boy's face.

"No," he said at length, realizing with an odd pang that it was the truth. "I do not. But I did, until… recently."

He sat down on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands.

"Get out, Potter," he whispered. "Get away from me. I loathe the very sight of you."

0 0 0

They left immediately. Even Harry, for once, understood very plainly that it was _not _the moment to linger for one last parting comment, and was out the door as soon as he could get there. Hermione stopped to wipe her eyes and then paused at the door and turned around.

Professor Snape sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his face hidden behind his hands. For a moment she thought he might actually be weeping, but he was quite still, and made no noise. She hesitated and then took a step towards him.

"Professor Snape?" she whispered uncertainly.

"Get _out_, Miss Granger," he said, his voice muffled somewhat by his hands.

"Are you—are you all right, sir? Can I get you anything? A—" she scoured her mind wildly for anything that might help "—A cup of tea, maybe?"

"The universal panacea," he muttered sarcastically, raising his head slowly. "No, Miss Granger, I do not require a cup of tea." His tone was biting, but so weary that it lacked its usual effectiveness. She looked at him helplessly, unwilling to leave without doing something to make him feel better.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I knew the potion wasn't a good idea and I still let Harry go ahead with it, and I helped him. Whatever you want to do about it… I won't complain. We… deserved to hear that, and not because either of us had a right to," she added hastily, "but… well, it seems like finding the truth is never as good as you think it's going to be."

He simply looked at her. He looked at her for so long that she began to fidget uncomfortably and felt her cheeks growing hot.

"Miss Granger," he finally said, "I do not intend to do anything about it, beyond what I have done."

"But sir, we—"

"I know very well what you did," he said. "However… I would prefer to simply… let the matter lie. I have no wish to torture myself with it any longer than I have."

He looked up at her and she met his eye. In the space of a moment she was filled with a feeling of such intense emptiness and loss that it staggered her. She gasped in shock, covering her mouth with one hand.

His eyes widened and the emotion disappeared as quickly as it had come. Odd, she thought, how easily the dull roar of her own grief and loss could feel like returning to normal in the face of having his emotions laid on top of hers so powerfully.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger," he said, looking stricken. "I… should have exercised more careful control over my--you must forgive me."

Stupidly, she said the first thing that came into her mind.

"I thought… you asked if you could call me Hermione," she murmured feebly.

His face grew more guarded than ever. "I—that was a mistake, Miss Granger. It is inappropriate for us to be on such familiar terms."

"Other professors call me Hermione sometimes."

"Members of your own House, Miss Granger, and with whom you are not already involved in a… delicate situation."

She blushed, wishing she'd thought of that herself and avoided making herself look even worse than she already did. "Yes, sir."

"Have you anything else to say, or do you think that it might be possible for you to leave me in peace?"

"I'm sorry, sir, no, I haven't anything else to say."

"Then I shall ask you to grant me a few moments of solitude before you once again begin your endless litany of questions."

That stung, and she frowned. "Yes, sir."

He waved a hand at her dismissively, staring at the floor. Still horrified by the story he'd told them, and wishing that she had some way to comfort him for the pain he was obviously suffering, she reached out to touch his shoulder, offering him at least a moment of human contact before she left.

His hand shot up immediately to stop her and he caught her by the wrist, just as her sleeve fell back from it, exposing the bare skin. His fingers wrapped around it and she shuddered as, once again, his emotions burned themselves into her.

"S-sir," she gasped, her eyes watering. "I'm so sorry, for what happened to—"

"Stop speaking, girl," he said hoarsely, his attention now locked on her wrist, which he still held in a vice-like grip. "I already know."

She kept her arm still, waiting for him to release her, but he didn't. He was looking at her hand as if he'd never seen a hand before, his thumb moving almost imperceptibly over her wrist in a way that would have been a caress, if it weren't so unthinkable for Professor Snape to be caressing her. She thought she could feel the beat of his heart, almost as clearly as she heard her own roaring in her ears.

"Sir?" she whispered, her mouth gone dry.

Abruptly, he released her wrist, almost throwing it away from him. "Go away, Miss Granger," he said, looking angry. "I have no use for your sympathy."

0 0 0

He half expected her to slam the door, but she didn't. She closed it carefully behind her instead, making sure that it made as little noise as possible. She, at least had at some vague understanding that she'd bothered him enough to last him for the rest of his life, for which he was thankful.

He'd clenched his hand into a fist, but once he was sure she was gone he opened it again slowly, staring down at his palm. He could still feel the delicate impression of her wrist on his fingers. He hadn't meant to touch her—at least, not to touch her bare skin. He'd only intended to stop her from touching _him_. He had no idea what ridiculous soft-hearted impulse had led her to reach out for him like that, but it was eminently clear to him that he could not allow it. If it was too familiar for him to use her first name, it was most certainly too familiar for her to give his shoulder a pat every time he felt a bit stressed.

He flexed his fingers. He knew the sight of his hand so well, had looked at it so many times as he contemplated the blood that it would always bear. It looked almost like a foreign thing to him now, even though it was still clearly his own.

There was the scar from Sirius Black's potions accident in fifth year—one reason he'd lobbied so fiercely after his teaching appointment for double potions between Slytherins and Gryffindors to be suspended. There was the familiar map of yellow stains from various potions ingredients. He closed it into a fist again and looked at it unhappily, trying not to remember the look of shock and pain in her eyes when he'd allowed himself to be startled into lowering his defenses against her, paltry as they already were.

0 0 0

Professor Snape went to the guest bedroom he'd established himself in and did not emerge again, as far as Harry and Hermione could tell. Harry refused to discuss Professor Snape's story, at least while Neville, Dudley and Ginny were there. The day afterwards, however, he found Hermione alone in the library and, shutting and locking the door, he approached her.

"Erm… Hermione?" he said cautiously.

She put down her book and lifted her head. "What is it, Harry?"

"D'you—I wondered if I could talk to you about Professor Snape."

She looked at him suspiciously. "What about him?"

"I… think I need to apologize to him."

"You think?" she snapped sarcastically. He drew back, obviously surprised by the uncharacteristically vicious tone and she bit her lip, regretting it immediately. "I'm sorry, Harry, I'm… not really myself at the moment."

"You were right, I shouldn't have done it. Only I hoped that maybe I wasn't _quite_ alone."

"Oh Harry, you aren't alone—"

"No," he agreed slowly. "Not like he is."

That took her by surprise. The thought of Harry being sympathetic to Professor Snape threw her off-balance completely.

"So you're going to apologize?"

"Yeah—well, I'm going to try."

"Good luck with that."

He shuddered. "Yeah. Thanks. Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?" she sighed.

"Why do you think he kept you in the room too?"

Although she knew the reason, Hermione still doubted that Harry would take very kindly to the idea of a bond between Professor Snape and herself, even if she hadn't promised to keep it secret. "You heard what he said. He held me just as responsible as you. I guess he probably knew that you wouldn't have thought of using that potion."

"Yeah, but still. For something so private—he obviously didn't like talking about it. And Dudley and Ginny and Neville all wanted to know, too."

"I don't know, Harry," she said irritably. "Maybe you should ask him about it. I'm hardly privy to the things that go on inside of Professor Snape's mind."

Again, a lie. Hermione sighed.

"Right. Sorry. Are you okay? Not about Snape, I mean, but about—you know?"

She scowled. "Which bit? Ron? My parents? My magic? Being hunted by Draco Malfoy?"

"Forget I asked," said Harry angrily. "You're just as bad as Snape, Hermione. You can't just let people be nice to you, can you?"

She blenched. "That wasn't a fair thing to say."

"Then don't bite my head off next time I try to be helpful. You think it's easy for us to watch everything you're going through? I went all the way to Australia and Snape wouldn't even let me in to see you. I'd think after all we've been through together that you wouldn't ignore me like this."

"Fine! I'll just add that on to the list of everything else I've done wrong this year!"

"Merlin, Hermione, I don't even know what you're talking about!" he shouted, frustrated.

"Oh I don't know, Harry," she snapped. "I can think of a great many things I've done. Letting you go ahead with that daft plan in the Ministry. Sending that poor man home when his wife was on trial. Splinching Ron. Stealing. Keeping you from going to Godric's Hollow when you first wanted to, when we might actually have got to Bathilda Bagshot _before_ she was killed and a giant snake used her body as a puppet. Taking so stupidly long to figure out that Dumbledore wanted you to find the Deathly Hallows. Nearly getting you all killed in Malfoy Manor trying to save me. Obliviating my parents and getting them _killed_. Is that enough for you, Harry? Because I can come up with more!" She was on her feet now, shouting, the book she'd been reading falling forgotten on the floor.

Harry's mouth fell open slightly, his eyes registering a very slowly dawning comprehension.

"You're absolutely mad if you think that anybody holds you responsible for—"

"Well perhaps you _ought_ to!" she said cuttingly. "I was supposed to be the intelligent, responsible one, and all I did was make a huge bloody mess of things over and over again."

"But I could never have done any of that without you, Hermione!"

"Oh, so the fact that you managed to pull of the great triumph in the end makes everything all right, does it Harry? I'll be sure to tell my parents that, next time I see them."

"YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WITH DEAD PARENTS, HERMIONE!" yelled Harry at the top of his lungs, startling her into silence. "And stop bloody acting like you are! I've been alone for my entire life! Everybody who ever might have loved me was dead before I was even old enough to know them at all, or else they died right after I found them. How about the brother I never even knew I had? Or my mum and dad—and _I_ can keep going too, you know. What about Sirius? Don't you dare talk to me as if I don't know what it's like to get someone killed, Hermione, because I can guarantee you that I know more about it than you do!"

Hermione burst into tears.

"Harry!" cried Neville in a shocked voice from the doorway, hurrying forward. "How could you talk to her like that? Hermione are you—Hermione?" he stared at her helplessly for a moment and then, drawing a quick breath, drew her clumsily into his arms and pressed her to his chest. Hermione let him do it, going limp against him and crying bitterly.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she sobbed into Neville's chest. "Just leave me alone. You're right. I'm sorry I'm so selfish and—and that I c-can't do anything right."

"That isn't what I said," said Harry miserably. "I just wish you'd tell me how to help you, Hermione."

"Maybe I should l-leave school," she hiccoughed, digging Professor Snape's handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her eyes and nose on it.

"Don't be daft," said Neville soothingly, bringing one hand up to stroke the top of her head. "You're brilliant even if you can't—well, even if you've got a bit of a problem at the moment."

"You heard what they all said, Hermione. It will get better. Maybe even before term starts—"

She laughed bitterly. "Oh of course, Harry. I'm sure it will come back just by wishing."

"It might," he said stubbornly.

The fireplace roared to life and Percy stumbled through it, his face covered in ash. Ron and George followed, and then Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry," said Mr. Weasley sharply, "is Professor Snape still here?"

"Yes," said Harry, staring at them. "What's happened?"

"George, go and find him. Perhaps he'll be able to—oh Percy," said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, "are you _sure_?"

The flames turned green again and Charlie, too, stumbled through, pointing his wand at the fireplace immediately afterwards and immediately beginning to ward it against further entry.

"Is there anywhere else in the house that's connected to the Floo network?" asked Percy urgently.

"No—Mr. Weasley, what's happened?"

"Selwyn," said Percy grimly. "He's coming to The Burrow to… strategise. Keep them safe, Harry. I told him they were visiting Bill and Fleur, but I don't trust him not to come looking if I can't convince him that I'm still planning to—to go through with it."

"Grimmauld Place is under Fidelius—"

"I don't care," said Percy. "Mum told me, when Dumbledore died everyone in the Order became secret-keeper." He looked stricken. "That includes me. Better if we make it difficult for him to get in, just in case."

Without another word, he Disapparated.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**Wow... the last chapter got an unprecedented number of reviews (for this story) -- 101, at the current count. Man. I am absolutely blown away by the response. It was far more than I expected, to be honest. 

Have no fears, Snape is not angry with Hermione. Annoyed, yes. Horribly angry? Probably at the beginning, but he got it all off his chest. I think the old Snape probably wouldn't have told that whole story in that way, but he is being influenced by Hermione, after all, and he does have a tendency to lose his temper and start shouting about things.

As for the matter of keeping vs not keeping the pregnancy -- I have no wish for this to be commentary on abortion in one way or another. The most I will say about it is that Snape, having practically no loving family of his own and desperate to have someone to love and be loved by, valued the idea of a child and family very highly. Lily, with her own prospects for marriage and family and her fears about Snape's Death Eater ties, had less reason to be immediately happy about it.

Just so we're clear on that. I've got zero interest in sparking some huge debate or argument about it.


	46. Aguamenti

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 46: Aguamenti**

* * *

They spent a very tense few hours waiting for Percy. Professor Snape joined them in the library and held a brief, whispered conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, apart from the rest. Then, without another word to anyone, he Disapparated. 

"Where's he gone?" asked Harry sharply, looking almost concerned.

Mr. Weasley looked tenser than ever. "He's gone to The Burrow."

Hermione, who had managed thus far to comfort herself with the idea that Percy would manage things somehow, suddenly felt afraid. Neville still had his arms around her, she realized, and she awkwardly disentangled himself from him, crossing the room to where Harry and the Weasleys stood.

"What's he doing at The Burrow?"

"Watching," said Mr. Weasley. "He'll stay out of sight unless things look to get ugly. Percy asked us not to, but I refuse to stand by and see my son tortured when I could have—"

"Arthur, stop," said Mrs. Weasley. "_Stop_. I won't hear another word about it. Everybody--out of this room. Percy will be _fine_, as will Severus, and there is no reason to stand about like—like—"

"Yes, mum" said George with unusual docility, grabbing Ginny by the arm and pulling her towards the door. Neville and Ron followed, carefully not looking at one another, although Ron appeared as if he'd like very much to look at Neville, at least for long enough to aim a good punch at him.

"Hermione, Harry," said Charlie, with a glance at his parents, "let's find somewhere else to be, shall we?"

Harry nodded mutely and they left the room, Hermione stopping to pull the door closed. Just before it swung shut, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Weasley gathering his wife into his arms, soothingly stroking her back.

0 0 0

Severus Apparated a sufficient distance away from The Burrow to avoid being heard and immediately cast a Disillusionment charm on himself. Fortunately, the weather had warmed enough that it had rained in Ottery St. Catchpole for several days, and there was no snow left to betray his footprints as he crept toward the bizarre little house.

Smoke was rising from the chimneys, and he could see a lone figure moving inside. Reaching the window, he peered through.

Percy Weasley paced nervously, rubbing his left arm with his right hand in a gesture that made Severus want to look away. It seemed indecent somehow, to think of the Mark on a Weasley's arm. As little as he cared for their children, Arthur and Molly had always been kind to him—and the thought of one of their children being so foolish as to join a megalomaniac determined to undermine everything their parents had worked for made his blood boil.

Two loud _cracks_ reverberated through the winter air, followed by the appearance of two cloaked, hooded figures a mere twenty feet from the door. Weasley drew a deep breath, set his face into a nearly unrecognizable mask of hauteur and malice, and opened the door. Severus had to admit, for all that he'd never thought of the boy as particularly subtle, several years in politics at the Ministry had apparently wrought wondrous changes in him. He looked as cold and calculating as the most hardened politician. For a moment, Severus was uncomfortably reminded of Lucius.

"Selwyn," said Percy. "Malfoy."

"Weasley," said Draco, pulling off his cloak and looking around the room with obvious distaste. "This is your hovel, is it?"

Percy snorted. "It's _a_ hovel. Not mine."

Draco sniffed, wrinkling his nose up. "It even smells like blood traitors live here. No wonder you got out."

"No wonder," said Percy in a tight voice. Severus hoped fervently that it would be taken for disgusted assent, rather than offense. "Make yourselves comfortable—well, as comfortable as you can be, given the surroundings. Can I offer you anything to drink?"

"Firewhiskey for me," said Selwyn. Percy nodded and summoned a bottle, pouring an ample portion and handing it to him.

Draco brushed an imaginary bit of mud off the side of his robes. "Brandy."

"How much longer is it going to be before you finish your part, Weasley?" asked Selwyn, lowering his hood and sniffing at the Firewhiskey. Percy's eyes flickered briefly between Draco and Selwyn, sizing them up.

"I haven't heard from Wilkes."

"Wilkes is dead," grunted Selwyn. "Just found out yesterday from one of our contacts in Australia."

Percy's eyes widened in a convincing look of shock. "Dead? What the hell happened to him?"

"Granger," said Draco bitterly. "That Granger bitch sliced him into pieces with some hex nobody's ever seen before."

"_Hermione_ Granger?"

"Do you know of any other Granger, Weasley?" snarled Selwyn, spitting on the floor. Percy glanced down for a moment and then politely ignored it.

"What was she doing in Australia?"

Draco took a survey of the room, located the chair he apparently found to be the least questionable, and sat on the edge of it, crossing his legs and managing a passable impression of his father's most suave mannerisms. "No idea," he said offhandedly. "She's back here now."

"In custody?"

Selwyn snorted loudly. "No."

"You mean she _got away with it?_ Bloody hell."

"No wonder you left the Ministry," sniffed Draco. "It's gone to the dogs since Shacklebolt took over."

"I see enough blood traitors here, I don't need to rub shoulders with them every day at work as well," said Weasley, looking around the room with nearly as much distaste as Draco had. Severus wondered how much of his disdain was genuine.

"I've had enough pleasantries," snarled Selwyn. "We need a plan."

"We've _got_ a plan," snapped Draco. "It hasn't changed."

"Still going after the Potterwatch people, then?" asked Percy mildly, inspecting his fingernails.

"Nobody's left but your brother and that baby," said Selwyn, raising one eyebrow. "So, when are you going to deal with them?"

"He isn't my brother," snapped Percy, showing just a hint of temper. "We've been over that, Malfoy. And I was under the impression that I was meant to hold back on that in order to collect information on the Order."

"_Have_ you any information?"

"Jordan is still in St. Mungo's. I don't know how they're keeping him alive, but they're doing it. Snape's been holing himself up at Hogwarts. Granger the same. Not that Hogwarts is quite the stronghold it used to be." Percy said in a superior tone.

Selwyn looked irritated. "That's it? Not very useful, Weasley."

Percy looked irritated. "I shouldn't have to remind you that they _know_ I joined the Death Eaters. I barely get them to let me into the meetings after six months of trying. Idiots they may be, but they're not _entirely_ stupid."

"I want to know where Granger is," said Draco. "That's useful. Not that I can do anything about her if she's at Hogwarts."

"I thought we were going after Weasley and the Lupin brat."

Draco rolled his eyes at Selwyn, giving him exactly the same look that Severus had seen him give to Crabbe and Goyle countless times. That was, in his estimation, a poor move. Selwyn was much smarter and much more difficult to control than Crabbe and Goyle had been. "Once Weasley's brother and the werewolf's bastard are dead, there will be other people to turn our attention to."

Selwyn shrugged, leaning against the wall and picking a muddy rock out of the tread of his boot. He tossed it carelessly onto the rug. "You keep funding it, I'll keep doing it."

Draco scowled. "Otherwise you'll just settle down and start blending right in with the Muggle-lovers, I suppose? I thought you had a taste for violence."

Selwyn gave him a predatory smile. "Oh I do, Malfoy. But there are less risky ways to get my kicks, if your money dries up. You want to go after Granger—fine. That swotty little Mudblood deserves to be taken down a few notches. It doesn't really matter to me who we kill. I just don't see what we're gaining by leaving George Weasley and Ted Lupin alive."

Percy simply listened, sizing them up in turn. Finally, he cleared his throat and Draco and Selwyn both looked at him. "After we've finished off my so-called brother," he said, with a sneer worthy of Severus himself, "and the brat, what do you intend to do, Malfoy?"

Trust a Gryffindor to ask a direct question.

"I'd have thought that would be obvious, Weasley," said Draco disdainfully. "We go after Snape, we go after Granger, and we go after Potter, in that order."

"Snape. Traitorous half-blood bastard," snarled Selwyn.

A fleeting look of hurt flashed over Draco's face and then he scowled. "I always knew there was something off about him."

"It's another reason not to move openly against the Order yet," mused Percy. "As far as I know, those meetings are the only time Snape's even away from the school. It's nothing compared to what it used to be, but even with the Dark Lord alive we weren't able to prevail at Hogwarts. Have you got a plan for sneaking on to the premises and getting at him there?"

"No," said Draco sullenly. "I left, and I was the last one."

"In other words, he's untouchable there. And you want me to reveal myself to the Order? Are you mad?"

"Watch your mouth, Weasley," snarled Selwyn.

"No," said Draco, somewhat nonplussed, "he's right. He's got to lie low. We're going to need to change the plan. The Lupin kid isn't living here anymore. I saw your family, your fat mother's stopped toting him around. Too bad, really. She looked as if she could use the exercise."

Percy didn't say anything, merely removing his glasses and polishing the lenses quietly, his face impassive. Politics had definitely altered him for the better. Any other Weasley would have reacted to that and given the game away--either that, or he honestly didn't care.

"Snape's the big target, but I want to tie up our loose ends first. Security around Jordan's too tight to finish him off, for now, but I haven't heard that they've made any connection between Jordan and Potterwatch. That means the other two are still relatively unprotected, yeah?"

Both men looked to Percy and Severus held his breath. There might be reasons for Percy to hold back the information even if he were still a Death Eater in earnest, but most of them were reasons that he seriously doubted a Gryffindor would consider. This, then, was as close to a moment of truth as he'd be able to come in terms of testing the possibility of Percy having successfully occluded him.

Percy didn't hesitate for more than a moment. "They've got no clue," he said carelessly. They're even speculating it wasn't actually Death Eaters at all, but someone with some other personal vendetta against Jordan's family who wanted to cover their tracks and pin it on us."

"Brilliant," said Draco, looking extraordinarily pleased. Severus frowned, almost feeling disappointed in him. Lucius would never have bought a story like that. "We can figure out what to do with Jordan when they finally let him out of St. Mungo's. In the meantime--Selwyn, you can go after the earless wonder. Make sure you get him when it's absolutely clear that Weasley here couldn't have done it. And make sure _he_ actually _dies_."

"Jordan would have died if his parents hadn't interrupted," said Selwyn, looking sulky.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I was there, Selwyn."

"And you panicked, killed the parents and dragged me through the Floo. Don't you dare try to make out that I'm the one who—"

"Don't you talk to me like that!"

"Stop playing lord of the manor, Malfoy. Just because it was your father's favorite little game and you've got control of the money now doesn't mean I'm going to let you lord it over me like—"

"I'm the one with the money, like you said, and I'm the one who's going to keep you out of Azkaban if—"

"Certainly kept your beloved dad out of Azkaban," sneered Selwyn.

That was too much for Draco. His face contorted with rage and he jumped up from his seat, pulling his wand and pointing it directly at Selwyn's chest.

"Take it back."

"Or what? Going to run to your mummy? Only you can't, as she's in Azkaban too."

"I told you, shut up!" yelled Draco.

"It's one thing to keep going with things even in spite of everything we've lost, but I'm not interested in helping a _Malfoy_ set himself up as the new Dark Lord," spat Selwyn.

"Gentlemen," said Percy, with just a hint of his old, pompous manner, "this is hardly productive."

Selwyn's eyes never moved from Draco's face. "Shut it, Weasley."

Percy's expression grew still colder and more distant. "If I may remind you, this is _my_ house—in name, at least—and you are trespassing on _my_ kindness at the moment. If you start throwing spells, I'll have to ask you to take it outside. It will be difficult to remain unobtrusive within the Order if the rest of the inhabitants of this filthy house return to discover their living room blasted to pieces."

Draco scowled and lowered his wand. "Fine. Weasley, try and get some _useful_ information for us next time. Selwyn, you're to go after the ginger menace and that freak of nature that they're trying to pass off as a baby. When all of that's taken care of, we'll discuss how to get at Snape."

"And you, Malfoy, will be doing what, exactly?"

Draco shot Selwyn a nasty look. "I'm going to kill Granger."

Severus' hand was halfway to his wand before he realized that hexing Draco through the window would not be a good idea.

"Never took you for a killer, Malfoy," said Percy conversationally, although for a moment his eyes betrayed some of his worry. Severus looked quickly to see if either of the others had noticed, but Selwyn was consoling himself with the last of his Firewhiskey and Draco seemed entirely wrapped up in visions of revenging himself on Hermione.

"Malfoy doesn't like getting his hands dirty." Selwyn threw his glass down on the floor, shattering it. Percy gave him a look of profound annoyance and pointed his wand at it. The shards re-formed themselves and he summoned the glass, setting it carefully on a bookshelf.

"I'll make an exception in her case," said Draco, looking truly furious. "Mark my words, I'm going to find her—and when I find her, I'm going to kill her."

Percy looked curious. "What'd she ever do to you?"

Severus hadn't realized it was possible for Draco to look angrier than he already had. "It's more the fact that she's still alive at all, if you know what I mean," he muttered bitterly and, Severus felt, quite dishonestly. "About time someone finished her off."

Percy frowned. "You think that's wise?"

"Trying to protect her, Weasley?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy, I only asked you—"

"Because I don't think I _need_ to give you a reason for wanting to kill Granger, any more than I need to give you a reason for wanting to kill Potter or all his red-headed hangers on."

Severus hissed softly through his teeth, watching intently. Draco was in a mood he'd never seen before, one that reminded him disturbingly of Bellatrix as she'd been before Azkaban, although he doubted that his former godson had it in him to be anything like that bloodthirsty.

Percy's face had gone just a fraction whiter. "It has nothing to do with whether I want her dead or not, but she's a war hero, Malfoy. Think about the publicity it will garner—"

"You didn't have that problem when we were talking about Snape," said Selwyn suspiciously.

"I don't care if you kill her!"

"You'd better not," said Draco coldly, "because mark my words, I'm going to do it, and I'm going to do it soon."

Percy shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance that didn't fool Severus for a moment. The boy was badly shaken. So, for that matter, was Severus. He'd seen Draco attempt to plan a murder before but even when he'd thrown himself wholeheartedly into his attempt on Dumbledore's life, he hadn't shown that kind of cold determination.

"I think I've had about enough of this garbage bin of a house as I can take for one night," said Draco. "We'll be in touch."

0 0 0

Hermione was curled up in bed with a book late that night when a faint knock came on her door.

She laid her book aside and padded over to the door, opening it a crack and peeking out, only to see Ron standing in the hallway, looking profoundly unhappy.

"Hermione," he croaked. "Can I come in?"

She stood up a little taller, moving to block the crack in the door more completely with her body. "Why?"

"I need to talk to you."

"You're a foot away from me, Ron. Talk."

He looked at her miserably. "I'm not going to ask you to take me back. Dad's been lecturing me ever since he and mum found out what I—what I said. And he's right. It wasn't forgivable. I've been making excuses for things because of Percy and—and because of Percy," he said lamely, avoiding her eyes. "But I ought to have—you didn't deserve to be spoken to that way no matter what you did. I'm sorry."

She stopped herself just before her instinctive nasty retort escaped her, and she thought of Professor Snape's story. She knew what Harry's mother had been punishing him for. Was it so different from what Ron had said? She sighed.

"I forgive you. That doesn't mean I want to spend much time with you."

"I know," he hurried to say, "and I understand. I just… maybe we could be friends again, sometime later."

"Maybe."

"I guess it was none of my business."

"No. It was none of your business," she agreed stiffly.

"I'm—I really am sorry, Hermione."

"I know you are. You're always sorry, Ron."

He looked stricken. She leaned her forehead against the door frame and sighed, welcoming the feeling of the cool wood on her skin.

"I'm really sorry about your mum and dad, Hermione. That was—it was my fault," he said, looking more miserable than ever.

She blinked in surprise. The thought that Ron had anything to do with the deaths of her parents had honestly never occurred to her. A cruel voice in the back of her mind immediately pointed out that he had a good point and she ought to make sure he knew it. "I'm the one who rushed off without thinking," she said, telling the voice to shut up.

"Yeah, but if I hadn't…"

"There's no point, Ron. Don't bother talking about it."

"Right. I'll—I'll let you get to bed, then. Sorry to bother you, but I saw your light was on and I—well, I just thought I'd say it while I had a chance."

"Thanks."

"Good night, Hermione."

"Yeah."

0 0 0

It was late, very late indeed when Severus finally returned to Grimmauld Place. He didn't know precisely why it was London that he chose to go back to and not Hogwarts. The Weasleys were there at least until the next day, and he was reassured that Draco was not aware of Hermione's whereabouts, for the time being. He had no need to linger at Harry Potter's home to ascertain her safety.

Nor could he argue that the guest accommodations he'd been provided with were more comfortable than his own chambers at the school. As he slowly mounted the stairs that led to his assigned room, he decided that it must be for convenience. Percy Weasley was staying at the Burrow. Severus had stepped forward after Draco and Selwyn had left and agreed to report to his family on his behalf. Easier to sleep at Grimmauld Place and discuss the matter with them in the morning than to return to Hogwarts and travel back and forth between the two places.

A floorboard creaked loudly beneath his feet and he froze. Trust the Blacks to have a house that squeaked and groaned at every turn. Some of the older pureblood families seemed to think it practically a requirement for any satisfactory living arrangement. He'd visited Prince House—once, and only once. It, too, had been like this. He'd loathed it immediately.

As soon as he was sure that the squeaking floorboard had not awakened any of the other occupants of the house, he started forward again. He was halfway down the hall when he noticed it.

A faint flickering light beneath a doorway, and an insistent voice, repeating something again and again.

He knew that voice.

He sighed heavily, running one hand through his hair. He was exhausted--worn out and concerned. But something, the same nameless thing that had driven so many of his foolish actions in the last weeks, something compelled him. He drew nearer to the door and moved his head close to it, listening.

"_Aguamenti_," she said insistently, a quaver in her voice. "_Aguamenti. Aguamenti… AGUAMENTI_!"

Each incantation was followed at first by a hiss of annoyance. Slowly, though, he could hear her frustration and anger building. He listened for several minutes, but she said nothing but the incantation for the charm, again and again.

When she began to sound hysterical, he felt that it might be prudent to intervene. Through a combination of calculated interference and sheer luck (mostly the latter), he'd managed to keep her histrionics to a satisfying minimum for some time. It seemed that he would be required to do so once again.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly, giving her door a sharp rap with his knuckles. He'd intended only to startle her, to remind her that she was not in the house alone and that walls could be thin. But the door hadn't latched properly, and it swung open.

He was not prepared to see her. He'd expected the door to stay closed. She was standing in the middle of the room, illuminated by a single candle, and holding a nearly empty glass in her hand. Her wand was out. She looked as if she'd frozen halfway through casting the charm.

"Miss Granger," he said again, uncertain of what else there _was_ to say.

She raised her stricken eyes to his face

"I'm sorry for disturbing you, sir," she said automatically, her voice sounding high and unnaturally forced. "I didn't realize you were back. I was just going to have a glass of water and go back to bed."

"I have returned only this moment," he said. He did what he could to hide his pity from her as he took in the sight. She wore Muggle pajama bottoms and some sort of clingy sleeveless shirt on top that was far too close-fitting and far too immodest to be considered appropriate sleepwear in his opinion, no matter how many logs Kreacher insisted on piling into the fire. Her hair was disheveled, her feet bare. A few stray droplets of water had fallen to the floor.

"Is—is Percy safe?"

He toyed with the idea of dismissing her, of not answering her.

"All are safe and well, Miss Granger."

"That's good."

She said nothing else. She merely looked away from him, as if waiting for him to leave. He took a step forward and noticed as the candlelight flickered over her face that her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. He could track the path of the salt tears down her cheeks and remembered the anger and frustration he'd heard in her voice as she tried to perform the charm again and again.

"Your feet must be freezing," he said smoothly, seizing on the first thought that came to him. "Return to your bed, idiot girl, before you catch a cold. I have no jurisdiction over your choice of sleepwear but I will be damned if I see you standing on a icy cold floor in this pestilential house when there is a perfectly good bed an arm's length away from you and do nothing about it."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly as he swept forward, relieved her of the glass, and shooed her into her bed with all of the ease and grace of a man who'd spent the majority of his adult life herding first-year Slytherins about. He very quickly had her installed in her bed and set the empty water glass on the bedside table.

"Harry could never quite get this charm right either," she said inanely, picking up the glass again and clutching it with both hands.

"Yes, it's quite complicated," he agreed blandly. "If you are having… difficulty sleeping, I have potions to hand—"

"No. I only woke up—I just wanted a glass of water," she said. But she didn't meet his gaze and there were dark circles under her eyes. He would be very much surprised to discover that she'd really slept at all.

He scowled abruptly. "Very well, Miss Granger. I trust that in the future you will keep your voice down, unless you wish the news of your... infirmity to be widely broadcast to all in this house."

She recoiled as if struck. "You don't need to bring it up," she said coldly. "I'm well aware—"

"Spare me your indignation. If you cannot be bothered to conceal yourself appropriately, I will not feel guilty for pointing out to you the repercussions of your actions."

"Of all the people in this house," she said, looking wounded, "I would have thought you might—might understand."

There were tears beginning to slip down her cheeks again and she carefully looked away, setting the empty glass back on the bedside table.

He hesitated. "Forgive me. I was unnecessarily harsh."

Her only response was to lie down and pull her blankets up over her shoulder.

"I am in earnest," he said sardonically, annoyed that she'd ignored him. "You are correct. I am uniquely placed to… comprehend what it is that you are experiencing. I did not take into account your absurd proclivity for taking innocent comments personally."

She looked at him incredulously, evidently wondering whether he'd actually apologized or if he was simply mocking her. Severus himself wasn't entirely sure. It was preferable that way. Plausible deniability was a concept he took great comfort in.

"Fine," she said eventually. "I'm going to sleep. I won't bother you again."

"Hope springs eternal, Miss Granger."

She began to reach for her wand, then stopped and sat up, blowing out the candle and hiding herself from him with darkness.

Several hours later, Severus himself had still not managed to fall asleep. His mind, for some perverse reason, seemed stuck in a loop, hearing over and over again her increasingly desperate voice as she attempted to perform the charm.

Her bloody influence on him was making it impossible to close his mind off before he fell asleep.

Irritated, he got up. He'd gone to bed in his robes and he smoothed them out carefully before starting out into the hallway.

He stopped outside of her door. He hadn't been intending to stop, but another floorboard had creaked and he'd felt compelled to pause and wait until he was sure he had awakened no one. His students, at least, were used to his nocturnal ramblings, but he had much less excuse for them outside of the school. There, at least, he could pretend it was vigilance and not simply insomnia.

Her bedroom door was still open a few inches, and he could hear her soft, even breathing from within. Still, he was seized with a sudden impulse to check on her, to assure himself of her safety. Everyone else he'd ever touched had died, and he lived in dread of bringing the same fate upon the girl. Surely it wouldn't do any harm just to reassure himself that she was still well. He crept into the room, staring down at her.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he admitted his fear that the loss of her magic was somehow his fault. He'd frequently blamed his mother's loss on himself. Was it truly coincidence that her loss had come only after she'd discovered her unbreakable link to him?

She sighed and turned over in her sleep, nestling her face into the pillow. There was a thin, yellow band of light entering the room from the hallway, but his body was casting a shadow over her and he felt a sudden cold fear that it might be an omen. He'd never been much for divination—it had always struck him as being rather woolly—but the prophecy about Harry had certainly been convincingly fulfilled.

He took a hasty step back, allowing the light to fall across her once more.

She stirred and he froze. If she were to wake up, he had no possible explanation for why he was standing in her room, looming over her like the great vulture that she probably thought he was.

He ought to leave. He needed to leave. There was no good reason to be standing here, watching the girl sleep. It was inappropriate, to say nothing of being more than vaguely reminiscent of the actions of a stalker.

Before he left to go, however, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at her empty water glass.

"_Aguamenti_," he whispered.

0 0 0

"No, Dumbledore. I still maintain that the idea is insupportable."

"I am sorry to hear that you didn't get your vacation, although Minerva seems to believe that you _volunteered_ to remain at Grimmauld Place."

"I hardly had another choice. Did you expect me to leave Herm—to leave her with nobody but Potter and Longbottom to protect her?"

"I did think you might feel that Harry was equal to the task, yes," said Dumbledore calmly.

"I did not. As it is irrelevant now, do you think it would be possible to revert to the matter I actually came to discuss with you?"

"Severus, I have already told you, I agree with Minerva. The Potions lessons ought to continue as they have already."

"_Why_? She cannot even do magic. It is a waste of both her time and mine."

The expression in Dumbledore's eyes grew somewhat less kind. "You already know that I disagree with that. Potions is one of the few branches of magic where a thorough understanding of theory _will _help her even when she is unable to practice. It might even be possible that her ability to brew will not be affected as her other talents have been."

"What on earth would make you entertain such a ridiculous idea?"

"Given that you believe the increase of her talent in the field is directly related to the _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_, Severus, it also stands to reason that it may be somehow protected from the drain on her ability in general that her emotional state has caused."

"I think you're mad."

Dumbledore smiled placidly. "That's never stopped you from listening to me before."

"More importantly, Severus," said Minerva from her desk, where she had been listening to the conversation with a barely suppressed smirk, "even if you choose not to listen to Dumbledore's advice, you have no option but to accede to _my_ demand. I have repeatedly denied your request and I must admit, I'm beginning to be tired of hearing it again and again. You ought to have learned long ago that nagging doesn't work on me."

"I have spent enough time with her to last me at _least_ until the end of term, and it would be greatly to my preference if it were even longer. Give the responsibility for her tutoring over to Slughorn. Surely even his laziness is equal to the task of merely discussing theory."

"Funny, Severus, I seem to recall you complaining that the majority of your students lack a fundamental understanding of theory and that it is that very lack which made so many of your Potions classes so tedious for you."

"Has it not occurred to you that I group Hermione Granger with those students?"

"No," she said simply, "it has not."

He kicked at the log that crackled in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks into the air. "Once again, I bow to your authority, Minerva," he said ungraciously.

"She's very like Lily Evans in some ways, you know," said Minerva. He stopped short, forcing himself to wait for a few heartbeats before raising his head and looking at her.

"I fail to see what could possibly be relevant about that statement," he said slowly.

"Of course, in other ways she isn't like Lily at all. Arthur, Molly and I had a discussion on the matter of her break with Ron Weasley." She studied his face carefully for a reaction and then shrugged, glancing back down at the piece of parchment she'd been writing on. "According to his parents, they've had a bit of a heart-to-heart and she's agreed to forgive him."

She'd agreed to forgive him? Just like that? Simply _forgive_ him? He shook his head briefly, as if it could clear the thought from his mind.

"I assume that you have some sort of point in mentioning Lily Ev--Potter," he said stiffly.

"Only that if it is so very difficult for you to be in Miss Granger's company, you might wish to try comparing her to someone you think fondly of instead of merely thinking of her as Harry Potter's friend."

"I assure you, her relationship with Harry Potter has nothing to do with my reasons for—"

"Nonsense, Severus. You're the only teacher in this school who doesn't see Hermione Granger for what she is. I don't find it coincidental that you're also the only teacher in this school who thoroughly loathes her best friend."

"I don't loathe Potter," he said, thinking uncomfortably of the scene in Harry's bedroom, where he'd very nearly said those exact words.

"Really?" she said, with a look that almost passed for genuine surprise. "I'm sorry, Severus, I didn't know. May I remind you, then, that your cover as a spy has been, as they say, blown? You are finally at liberty to cease pretending and embrace Harry as you have always secretly longed to do."

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped.

She didn't even look up. "Mm, that's what I thought."

"If you are absolutely determined—"

"I am, and I am quite ready for you to start believing it."

"Then all I can do is register my protest."

"Consider it registered. Term starts tomorrow. I suggest you make sure that your lesson plans are in order."

"I simply—"

She set her quill down abruptly, looking annoyed. "I am not in a mood for yet another repetition of objections I have already addressed."

"I continue to fail at understanding how she and I are alike in any sense," he admitted grudgingly. Had he been somewhat younger and less capable of controlling himself in tense situations, he would have said it in quite a rush. Even as it was, he watched her anxiously, waiting for her response.

She smiled sadly. "I know you do."

"Once again, it seems, you and I are not in agreement."

"You are quite right. Having had a few moments of leisure in which to consider the matter, I am only surprised that it didn't happen sooner."

"Ah yes, if only I had nearly died at an earlier juncture, all of this suffering might have begun even sooner."

"Suffering? Are you suffering?"

"It is not _I_ who is—"

"Severus, I can't possibly imagine which of Hermione Granger's trials you are attempting to blame yourself for, but I assure you, none of them have anything to do with you. Stop trying to take credit for punishments you didn't inflict. It's conceited."

"You have no way of knowing—"

"Yes I do," she snapped. "And of all the people to blame for recent events in her life, you are _not _one of them. In fact, she would be dead at this point if not for your intervention. Accept it and move on, Severus, and do make some attempt at being kind to the girl. She is, as you have so aptly pointed out, _suffering_, and she will suffer even more greatly when classes resume tomorrow. The least you can do if you insist on holding yourself even marginally responsible is to shield her to some degree from the fact that her classmates will discover tomorrow that a girl not well-liked by any of them has been, as they will see it, cut down to size. I assure you, they will make the most of it."

"Of course she's well-liked. She's friends with Pott—"

"_Potter_ is well-liked, through no great merit of his own. Hermione is not. If you were actually capable of looking beyond Potter's presence in her life you would see I was not speaking idly when I compared her to Lily. Potter, Weasley and Longbottom are her only real friends in this school, with the possible exception of Weasley's younger sister, and she has just had a massive falling-out with one of them. Surely you have some idea of how that might feel to her."

He found, to his dismay, that he did. Lily had never been very popular until—Lily and Hermione certainly were similar in their academic ability and their ridiculous bloody soft-heartedness. He'd already admitted that much in the past. It stood to reason, he supposed, that Hermione, too, might be resented by her classmates for it.

In which case, Minerva was quite correct. She was in for a far more miserable time than even he had thought. He sighed.

"Very well. I will… see what I can do."

"Thank you, Severus. Now go away. I have another appointment in five minutes and I need to finish this letter."

He took the Floo to his office and sat at his desk for a very long time, lost in thought. Finally, he summoned a House-Elf.

"Locate Miss Granger and inform her that I wish to see her in my office immediately."

He waited.

He was just beginning to wonder whether it was legitimate to dock points for lateness if no time had been set for an appointment when the knock came on his door and she peeked her head in.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" she said uncertainly.

"Come in and sit down."

She obeyed, taking a seat and looking around the office, knitting her eyebrows together. "Am I in trouble, Professor?"

"No."

"Did something happen? With the Order?"

"No." He looked at her, wondering, now that he had her in front of him, what he'd intended to say. It occurred to him that it might have been wise to write it down.

"Oh," she said doubtfully, looking around again.

"Miss Granger," he said, allowing his irritation with himself to color his tone, "the Headmistress has indicated her fear that you might be subject to some degree of ridicule from your fellow students tomorrow."

She flinched, two bright spots of color appearing on her cheeks. She, too, had apparently considered it.

"For reasons unknown to me, she seems to feel that I might be of some use to you in… coping with this issue."

"You don't need to do that, sir," she said hastily. "I can speak with—with my Head of House."

He lifted one eyebrow. "I was not aware that you were on such comfortable terms with Professor Trelawney. If that is indeed the case, then I am more than happy to defer to—"

"No," she said, her cheeks growing even redder, "I'm not."

"In that case, do not waste my time with mindless protestations. The Headmistress will be discussing your situation with the other Professors tonight. It is not feasible to expect that you will be able to conceal your… condition… from your fellow classmates. They will notice if you cease to volunteer constantly in class. They will notice if your professors cease to call on you. And, most assuredly, they will notice if you attempt to participate in practical exercises and f—have difficulty."

"If I fail, you mean."

"I did not say that."

"You started to," she said miserably.

He steeled himself not to reach out and take her hand, no matter how forlorn she looked. It was unthinkable—utterly inappropriate, to say nothing of her House affiliation or his determination to keep his distance from her. The very impulse appalled him.

"I did, indeed, _start_ to say it. However, I corrected myself. Surely you do not think that I would do so out of politeness or regard for your feelings, Miss Granger. I flatter myself that I have never shied away from telling you the truth without sugar-coating it."

"Yes, sir."

It was a lie, of course—at least in part. He had very much intended to spare her feelings. He still had no faith that if her condition remained for long it might not begin to sap his magic as well as hers, and he intended to avoid it at all costs. And none of that even began to address his fear that it might all be his fault. If that meant being more tactful with her than usual, so be it.

"Your professors will do what they can to ensure that your fellow students keep their remarks to themselves. However, I suggest that you—" he steeled himself to say it "—you might wish to discuss the matter with Potter beforehand and arrange for some level of protection and companionship outside of classtime. Given that he is already aware of your current limitations and seems most _eager_ to protect you, I cannot imagine that he will say no."

"I already talked with Harry and Neville about it."

He scowled. Longbottom was yet another Hermione-related matter that he would have to deal with. Best to nip his burgeoning affection in the bud before it occurred to Hermione to encourage him or—Merlin forbid—actually reciprocate his feelings.

"Very well," he snapped. "It seems that the Headmistress was mistaken and you have no need of my help. I will see you tomorrow morning in Potions, Miss Granger. You are dismissed."

She stood up, looking a bit startled at the abrupt dismissal. When she hesitated, his scowl grew darker.

"_Out_, Miss Granger. I have no more to say to you."

She hesitated again at the doorway. "I just wanted to say—er—thank you for the water, sir."

He breathed in sharply and then carefully smoothed away any expression from his face, looking up at her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Miss Granger," he said blandly. "I believe I said that you were dismissed."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: A slower chapter, but aww, he's looking out for her and he can't even admit why. 

Thanks to the friends who encourage me every night to keep writing this, and especially thanks to Droxy for her help on this chapter and her suggestions about Selwyn.

And thanks, of course, to you, dear readers and reviewers, as always.


	47. If She Should Be Another's

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 47: If She Should Be Another's**

* * *

Professor Snape, for once, was not marking papers when Hermione entered their Potions classroom. He sat ramrod straight, his hands folded on his desk, his face shadowed behind the ever-present mass of his hair. 

"You will not attempt to brew a potion this morning. Turn to the beginning of chapter twenty-three and begin reading the information on Potions theory. You will also find an Herbology text on the table. I expect you to take detailed notes and to be prepared by next class for an in-depth discussion of your opinions on Muggle herbal medicine and how it differs from the magical discipline of Potions. Many of your classmates seem to assume that Potions brewing is simply a matter of adding the correct ingredients. You will formulate an opinion on that matter and be prepared to defend your position."

She rummaged through her bag for her Potions text and a roll of parchment and then set her bag down slowly.

"I suppose I won't be allowed to try brewing again until things straighten themselves out," she said unhappily, casting a forlorn glance at her cauldron, which he had set on a shelf.

"Not this week, but that is neither here nor there. If you check your syllabus, you will see that I have not altered the original plan for the course. I do not intend to mollycoddle you, Miss Granger. You may expect it from your other professors, but not from me."

"I thought you said that you would be helping me—or that you wouldn't be putting me on the spot in front of other students, at least?"

He drew a parchment to him and removed his quill from its inkstand, tapping the edge on the stand to remove any excess ink. "I see no other students in this classroom. My requirements for you will not change."

"So when it _does_ come time to brew a potion, will you--?"

"I expect that I will allow you to attempt it, yes. There is not any reason to believe that you will be incapable of performing all types of magic, should you set your mind to it. I see no reason not to let you make one attempt before confining you to purely theoretical study."

She smiled gratefully at him, relieved beyond her expectations to hear that he believed she might still be capable of performing adequately in at least one of her classes. He saw the smile and looked momentarily surprised, but almost immediately he bent his head over his parchment and settled back in to his chair to ignore her as was his wont.

Strangely, that comforted her too. It even made her rather happy. At least _his_ opinion of her wouldn't change, no matter what happened to her. Even if his opinion of her wasn't terribly high, it was nice to have a little consistency in her life. Choosing a seat, she settled in and opened the book.

0 0 0

The hour passed in what Severus felt was a pleasantly companionable silence. He glanced up at her occasionally, but she had become utterly absorbed in her work, occasionally dropping her book on the table to scribble a note or an idea. Twice, he saw her eyes stray in his direction and that inexplicable smile return to her face. It warmed him to suppose that perhaps he was the reason for it.

This was the way things ought to be, what he had felt the unpleasant lack of at the end of last term. It was pleasant to be seated at his desk, marking his papers and listening to the quiet scratch of her quill, or the rhythmic noise of her knife on the cutting board.

When the hour was done, he put his work away and held the door open for her as she walked into the hallway.

"As we are both going to the same class, Miss Granger, I will escort you to Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said stiffly.

"Thank you, sir," she said politely, with a somewhat anxious glance at her fellow students, who were now milling about in the hallway. "That would be lovely."

He did not miss the glance, nor fail to interpret its significance, and he glared so darkly at one hapless first-year that the terrified girl dropped her bag, picked it up again with an absolutely horrified look in his direction, and then fled. That made him feel slightly better.

"After you," he said with sardonic politeness, gesturing in the direction of the Defense classroom. She smiled uncertainly at him and then set off down the hallway.

Word had not yet got out, it seemed, of her condition, and he hoped that it would stay that way for at least a few more hours. If it did not, he would not be answerable for the number of House points deducted for snide comments. He would not have students gossiping in his class, no matter what the subject.

Harry met them at the classroom door. "Sorry, Hermione," he said unhappily. "I was running late, and then I couldn't find you—"

"That's all right, Harry. Professor Snape walked me over."

Severus nodded curtly at them and swept past into the classroom. His original lesson plan had involved quite a bit of practical work and, loathe as he was to admit it, he would rather change the syllabus entirely than force her to reveal herself within the first ten minutes of class on the first day of the new term. It would wreak social havoc when it was discovered, and he had no interest in dealing with it while they were in his classroom.

It took another five minutes for the students to assemble. Ronald Weasley arrived two minutes late and Severus smiled coldly at him.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, and do not be late to my class again." He took a certain sadistic pleasure in Weasley's shock and outrage. Hermione might be unwilling to punish him for his actions, but Severus certainly was not.

"_Twenty points_? Sir, I was only two minutes late, that's completely—"

"Reasonable" he snapped. "Ten points for every minute, Weasley. You are a seventh year with aspirations, however ridiculous, towards being an Auror. It is high time that you learned to be punctual. Now, unless you can produce a very good reason for your tardiness—on paper, and signed by a professor—the deduction stands."

"Yes, sir," he muttered, throwing himself dejectedly into a seat in the back row beside Lavender Brown, who patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.

"Wands away," said Severus, smirking at the low murmur of disappointment that rose from the students. "We will be discussing defensive magical theory today."

He'd alluded to Dolores Umbridge's assigned textbook on purpose, and the consternation of his students grew even more obvious at the words. The buzz of half-whispered complaints grew louder and louder.

He let it rise to the point where a few of the words were actually discernible from where he stood, and then he pulled his wand swiftly from his sleeve and shouted "_ACCIO_ WANDS!" in a voice so loud that every student jumped and fell immediately silent. A shower of wands flew like arrows from bags, sleeves, pockets and desktops. Severus directed them onto his desk, where they fell with a clatter.

All eyes were now on him, and all voices silenced—which was precisely the way that Severus liked his classrooms to be. The only noises he could hear were his own footsteps on the stones and the noise made by a roomful of mouth-breathing Gryffindors.

"You have all just been disarmed," he said coolly, stating the obvious. "Potter—have you ever defeated an enemy by the use of_ Expelliarmus_?"

Harry blinked at him and then looked around at the rest of the still-dumbstruck class. "Er, yes," he said.

"Do tell us what transpired."

"Well—" Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Which time?"

"Precisely. Which time, indeed? A wizard who has grown completely dependent on his wand can easily be rendered incapacitated by an _elementary_ spell. Potter, who did you defeat?"

Harry, who appeared to have caught on, flashed a cocky grin at him and then looked around at the rest of the class once more, slightly less nonplussed. "Voldemort."

A few students yelped, but only a very few. Either they'd finally got used to hearing Harry say the Dark Lord's name, or his final defeat had at last rendered his name powerless. Severus smiled coldly.

"One of you--name for me a wizard _other_ than the Dark Lord who has been defeated or killed after having been rendered helpless by the disarming jinx."

Ronald Weasley raised his hand and Severus, frowning, nodded at him.

"Albus Dumbledore," said Weasley nastily. The twenty points had, apparently, rankled just as much as Severus had hoped they would.

The students sitting nearest him actually moved their desks a few inches away, as if expecting Severus to curse him on the spot. Other than the faint scrape of chairs and desk legs over the floor, nobody else so much as breathed.

"Yes," said Severus coldly. "Albus Dumbledore was certainly disarmed before he was killed, although it is hardly a fair example, as he was already in no state to defend himself. It is true, however, that Draco Malfoy successfully disarmed him in what was nothing short of a miracle.

"Unfortunately, Weasley, your example will not stand for the purposes of this discussion, as Albus Dumbledore died not because he was disarmed, but because he _chose_ to die."

Weasley scowled and, as it became clear that Severus was _not_ going to send him to the hospital wing in an advanced level of pain, the rest of the students began to relax again.

"As you hopefully are beginning to understand, even the most powerful wizard can be disarmed and rendered helpless, at least temporarily, and even the most… inexperienced wizard can disarm an opponent, if he is lucky enough." He glanced at Harry disdainfully, recalling the boy's use of the curse on the Dark Lord during his fourth year.

"It is the epitome of foolishness to assume that you will always have your wand to hand in a battle. The witch or wizard who is unprepared for such an eventuality will almost inevitably be defeated. Most of you have, by now, incurred some fraction of real-world experience in battling the Dark Arts. If you are taken by surprise and do not already know how to react, you will almost certainly _die._"

Romilda Vane, who Severus had always particularly disliked, raised her hand.

"Miss Vane," he said dryly. "You have a question?"

"Well, sir," she said, glancing around at her fellow students somewhat superciliously, "We won't actually _die_, will we? I mean, the war's over—"

"And attitudes such as that will only increase the likelihood of your early demise, Miss Vane. Anybody who believes that the war is over simply because we have emerged victorious from a single battle is a fool. The Dark Lord's defeat has decisively turned the tide of the war but it is—_not_—over."

Harry and Hermione were nodding their assent, as were several of the older seventh-years. A few of the younger were looking skeptical and he scowled at them. "Not every one of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters was present at the final battle. Not all were caught by Aurors or the Order of the Phoenix at the time. They are still at large and still wreaking what havoc they can, including attacks on former classmates of yours.

"What will you do, if your enemy disarms you and you no longer have the ability to defend yourself via magic?"

"Well, there's nothing we _can_ do, is there?" said Seamus Finnegan uncomfortably.

"Raise your hand before you speak in this class. And you are wrong, Finnegan. Five points from Gryffindor for an asinine response to a question. Anyone else?"

He gave them two minutes of silence before he snapped, "Two points from every Gryffindor and Slytherin in this room for rank imbecility. If you have no wand, what options are left to you?"

Harry raised his hand again. In this class, at least, the boy was beginning to show a noticeable similarity to Hermione.

"Potter," he snapped. "Enlighten us yet again from your vast trove of Defense knowledge."

"Hand-to-hand combat?" suggested Harry.

"Vague, but correct, Potter. Five points to Gryffindor. A wizard who casts _Expelliarmus_ is very likely to be as dependent on his wand as every one of you thoughtless half-wits. He will anticipate that, having disarmed you, he has rendered you completely unable to defend yourself against him. This is _not_ the case.

"In fact, if you are able to react appropriately and swiftly to being disarmed, you will very likely surprise your opponent and gain the upper hand, leaving you time to either retrieve your own wand or capture his.

"The major disadvantage you face is the inability to cast shield charms. Even this, however, does not render you incapable of defending yourself. Most spells will be stopped by inanimate objects, although frequently those objects will be destroyed by such spells. Anybody who has dueled and seen a spell ricochet off a wall ought to know this. If you can get something in front of you—a book, a piece of furniture or, yes, even another person—you can protect yourself from most common curses.

"After seven years of dueling you ought to have honed your instincts and reflexes to the point where, with a little practice, you will be able to react as quickly _without_ your wand as you react _with_ it."

For a moment, his eyes found Hermione, who was listening to him raptly and with an expression of such gratitude that he almost smiled at her. The knowledge that she'd understood his gesture—however impartial it was meant to be—and appreciated it filled him with a sort of pride in himself that he'd rarely experienced before.

He tore himself away and surveyed the class again thoughtfully.

"Out of your desks. One-half of you will come and retrieve your wands. You will pair up with an unarmed partner and attempt to cast a Jelly-Legs Jinx at them. Those of you who are not armed will attempt to avoid the jinx and disarm your opponent, without using magic.

"Given the potential for injury in this exercise, you will go one at a time, and only under my supervision. Nor will you choose your own partners. I will start with the front row and assign partners to you. If your name is called first, you will retrieve your wand. If it is second, you will assist your fellow students in moving the desks—without magic—to the edges of the classroom.

"Mr. Potter and Miss Granger," he said, allowing himself to steal another glance at her. She and Harry exchanged looks of relief as he got up from his seat and she promptly began pushing desks towards the wall.

"Miss Patil with Miss Vane--" and so on through the list until he came to Weasley and Brown. Again, he took a rather vicious pleasure in assigning Weasley to be the disarmed partner.

0 0 0

Two weeks passed, in which Hermione struggled through her classes. In spite of her best efforts and those of her professors, the truth ultimately came out. After Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall deducted two hundred points between them from various Houses, the public mockery was kept, at least, to a quiet minimum. After a furious Ginny hit Lavender Brown with a Bat-Bogey Hex in the middle of a Gobstones game, nobody said much in the Common Room either.

Truthfully, though, the only place where Hermione felt remotely comfortable anymore was in Potions. Professor Snape, having made it abundantly clear that he expected her to fail brilliantly, allowed her to attempt to brew a potion.

To her amazement and deep relief, it worked. Professor Snape had actually smiled fleetingly at her and then simply returned to his marking, accepting her vial as usual and, on Friday, handing her a parchment with her grades for the week. The "Exceeds Expectations," which once would have been a disappointment, struck her as particularly amusing under the circumstances.

The only other respite she found was in long talks with Neville, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to provide a sympathetic ear. He told her that he viewed it as his particular responsibility, after all she'd done for him over the years, to be there when she needed it most. He was a far better sounding-board than Harry, who constantly interrupted or grew distracted by other things, as valiantly and sympathetically as he tried to listen. Neville simply sat there quietly, nodded when it was called for, and, when she began to cry, hugged her briefly and told her that things would get better.

Between the death of her parents and the loss of her magic, she and Neville had suddenly found a great deal more in common than they'd ever had before. Herbology and Potions were quickly becoming Hermione's two favorite subjects, as they were the only ones where she hadn't fallen behind every last classmate that she had, to their great glee. This perfectly suited Neville, who was delighted to be her partner in Herbology and had the grace not to gloat that someone, at long last, was worse than he was in Transfiguration.

Ron had attached himself at the mouth to Romilda Vane, who had apparently decided that his war hero status now afforded him the same attractiveness as Harry. He rarely spoke to any of them anymore, and Harry, although they spent a great deal of time together at Quidditch practice, seemed to prefer spending time with Hermione, Neville and Luna instead. He confided to them that after all that had happened, he'd developed a heretofore unsuspected liking for quiet afternoons in the library. Ginny, too, gravitated away from her brother and towards Harry.

Ron, however, whose newly single status had led to him being surrounded by every Gryffindor girl and several from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, rarely seemed to mind. She caught him looking sadly at her from time to time over Romilda's shoulder, but he didn't try to approach her, and she could think of nothing to say to him.

"Hermione," said Neville breathlessly, catching up with her as she pulled her grades from her pocket and looked at them again one Saturday afternoon, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Mm?"

"Professor McGonagall is taking me to St. Mungo's this afternoon to talk with Healer Pye and maybe visit my parents—and, well, I wondered if you'd come with me. You said you would, you know."

"This afternoon?"

"Maybe in an hour or so, McGonagall said."

"I've got a lot of work to do—"

Neville looked crestfallen. "Oh."

She sighed and began rolling up her parchment. "Of course I'll go, Neville. I did promise, after all."

0 0 0

A Muggle, walking down a particular London sidewalk that afternoon, might have noticed three figures huddled together in front of a very old department store window, staring at the sadly out-of-date mannequin that the window displayed.

He might have noticed the particularly bushy hair of the shortest figure, or the amiable, round face of the tallest, or the stern set of the eldest's chin.

What he would _not_ have noticed was the moment when the tallest figure leaned in and whispered something to the mannequin, or when the mannequin beckoned in response. What he most certainly would have failed to observe was the moment when each of them, one by one, stepped through the glass as if there was nothing there at all, and disappeared, not only from the street, but from his mind.

0 0 0

The long-term spell damage ward at St. Mungo's was more densely populated than Hermione remembered it being. If she'd given more than a moment's passing thought to it, she would have expected that. It was only yet another piece of the aftermath of Voldemort's yearlong dominance over the Wizarding world.

She didn't recognize anybody there, other than Gilderoy Lockhart. It seemed that he had, indeed, made significant strides toward recovery: the handwriting on all of the autographs that adorned the photos around his bed was tidy enough to almost approximate what it had been before he'd Obliviated himself. Professor McGonagall tactfully stopped to have a chat with him, allowing Neville and Hermione to continue on to the very end of the ward, where a large screen stood, obscuring one corner of the room.

From the way Neville looked at it, Hermione felt quite sure that his parents were behind it. She reached for his hand and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze. He didn't let go.

A man in healer's robes emerged from behind the screen, looking a bit nervous.

"Ahh, Neville," he said brightly, extending his hand. Neville finally released his grip on Hermione's hand in order to shake the man's. "I'm so glad you could come. And you brought your—"

"This is my friend Hermione," said Neville quickly, blushing a bit.

"Splendid, splendid! What a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. So kind of you to join Neville."

"You are going to let me see them this time, aren't you?" asked Neville doubtfully, with another look at the screen.

"Oh, yes," said Healer Pye. "I'm terribly sorry about Christmas. I know it's the first year you haven't seen them, but one of the apprentices mixed two potions together that had some sort of awful reaction, and the entire floor had to be sealed off. Frankly, it's a wonder we didn't lose anyone."

"That's—too bad," said Neville unhappily.

"Quite. Now, I must warn you, it does seem we were a _bit_ overly optimistic, at least for the short term. There have been some very promising developments, and I'm sure you won't be disappointed, but, well, one doesn't want to build these things up too much."

"Of course not," murmured Neville, looking crestfallen.

"It's the treatment, you see," said Healer Pye, addressing Hermione now. "Cruciatus causes extensive neurological damage. We've never had much idea how to treat it. Well, the Muggles have made extraordinary advances in understanding biochemistry and anatomy and physiology and things like that. That means the way that the body works on the inside, you know," he added.

"I'm Muggle-born. I do know."

"Oh! Don't see many of you around these days. That's splendid. I'm_ really _delighted to meet you. Well, as I was saying, the Muggles have far outstripped us in their understanding of where things go and how they're put together and what makes them run. Still, even they haven't the foggiest idea how to fix nerves and brains and things once they're damaged. That's where hybrid healing comes in. You see, we take Magical healing practices, and combine them with Muggle anatomical knowledge, and we hope to achieve things that have never been done before. It's quite exciting."

Hermione listened with interest, nodding where it was appropriate. Other than the fact that he reminded her of a young and even more enthusiastic Arthur Weasley, Healer Pye seemed to know what he was talking about.

"The treatment we've developed is still experimental. Neville here is one of the first family members of a Cruciatus victim to allow us to try it out. We're really indebted to him. And it's been a smashing success, all told. Not entirely what we'd hoped, as I said, but steady improvement, definitely steady improvement."

"How lovely," Hermione found herself saying vaguely. Neville had gone rather gray in the face, and she took his arm in hers. "I think that's all we need to know, isn't it? I'm sure Neville is anxious to visit with his parents."

"Of course," said Healer Pye, his anxious look returning. "Well, I just hope you won't be disappointed. We'd hoped for a full recovery of mental faculties by this time and it simply hasn't—well, again, I simply hope that you won't find it disappointing."

"I'm sure we won't," said Hermione firmly, entirely for Neville's benefit, although she was beginning to fear that Healer Pye was attempting to prepare them for something that would not make Neville happy at all.

Unable to stall any longer, Healer Pye stepped aside and Neville, after taking a deep breath, guided Hermione around the screen.

Her first impression was of a very simple but very comfortable private room. There was one large double bed, with tables on either side of it, on which sat a few photos in frames, all of which showed Neville. A couple of paintings, done in a very shaky hand, adorned the wall, and sunlight streamed in from the one window. This was apparently charmed like the windows in the Ministry were, as it had been quite gloomy outside ten minutes previously.

Two large, squashy-looking armchairs sat side-by-side and reminded Hermione distinctly of something Professor Dumbledore might have conjured. In these chairs sat Neville's parents.

Her first thought was that they looked exactly the same as they had in their fifth year. When she looked more closely, however, she realized that this was not true. Alice Longbottom seemed to have put on a bit of weight. Her face was no longer the sunken wreck that it had been. She didn't look healthy, not in the slightest, but she looked closer to healthy than she had been.

Frank Longbottom, she realized, had Neville's earnest eyes, and he was looking at them now with a very Neville-like expression.

"Dad," breathed Neville, squeezing Hermione's arm in his so tightly that her hand began to tingle from lack of circulation, "Mum."

Alice Longbottom stood up, her long gown hanging tent-like on her still-gaunt frame, and walked slowly towards them, her eyes fixed hungrily on Neville.

"Bertram?" she whispered hoarsely. Neville started, his face coloring.

"N-no, mum," he said. "Not Bertram. It's Neville. I'm Neville."

"Neville?" she repeated slowly, and then her eyes went quite wide and she gave a soft, bird-like cry. "It's Neville?"

"Bertram was my mum's younger brother," said Neville absently, staring with wide eyes as his mother inched hesitantly closer to him.

She was only a few inches away from them now and Hermione carefully extracted her arm from Neville's so that she could step aside. She watched Neville anxiously, waiting for some sign that he'd prefer her to leave, but he'd begged her outside not to abandon him unless he asked her to.

And so she stayed and watched as Neville's mother reached both of her hands up to him and cupped his cheeks in them, tilting his head down so she could look him in the face.

"You're Neville?" she said feebly.

Neville, tears in his eyes, nodded. "Yes mum. I'm—oh, Merlin, I'm Neville, mum." His voice broke halfway through the sentence and his mother's hands twitched away from him abruptly. He sat down on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he attempted to master himself.

"Neville, Neville," Alice Longbottom crooned, sitting down on the bed beside him and wrapping her arms around him. He slumped against her and hid his face in her shoulder, and she gently stroked his back, a childlike smile on her face. "Sweet baby Neville," she whispered, pressing her lips into his hair.

An audible sob broke from him and his mother hugged him tighter, rocking him back and forth and humming tunelessly.

Finally, he sat up, wiping his eyes discreetly.

"I came to tell you something," he said, looking over his shoulder at his father, who had stood up and was standing at the foot of the bed, watching them in silence. He stood up and took a deep breath, looking down at his parents with red eyes.

"I came to tell you," he said slowly but unhesitatingly, "that Bellatrix Lestrange is dead."

His fists were clenched at his sides, and his eyes flashed as he looked at the wasted, pain-lined faced of his parents. For a moment, Hermione thought they weren't able to understand, that they hadn't been pulled far enough out of the long mental ruination that Bellatrix Lestrange had thrown them into.

And then Frank Longbottom shook his white, wispy hair out of his eyes and blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek. Slowly, he hobbled forward—he seemed to be in far worse shape than Neville's mother was—until he and Neville were only centimeters from each other, face to face. They were almost exactly the same height, although Neville's father stooped over, presumably from pain. He stared at Neville with an expression of such heartbreak and concern that Hermione had to look away.

"It wasn't me who did it, dad," whispered Neville.

With a look of deepest relief, his father nodded at him, his face stretching into a painful attempt at a smile. "Good boy," he rasped, patting Neville's hand feebly and then shuffling back to his chair. He sat down laboriously and looked down at his hands, his eyes drifting in and out of focus as his mind began to wander again.

They watched him for a few minutes, until there was a gentle rapping on the screen and Healer Pye peeked in at them.

"Terribly sorry, Neville," he said regretfully, "but visiting hours are up. I've just had a chat with Headmistress McGonagall and she said she'll see about making it out here earlier next week, hey?"

"Yeah," said Neville. "Right. Okay."

He cleared his throat and looked back at his mother.

"I made something for you," he said shyly, reaching into an inner pocket of his coat and carefully removing what at first appeared to be a perfect, delicate white rose. He held it out to his mother, who accepted it and turned it slowly in her fingers as if she didn't understand.

Then she smiled tenderly and set it on her bedside table. Hermione could just make out, imprinted on one of the petals, the words 'Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.'

0 0 0

Severus walked in the direction of the library, Madam Pince having asked him to help her review the Potions texts in the stacks and ensure that none contained dangerously inaccurate information. A few inaccuracies would bother no one; they merely presented an interesting challenge to the brewer. Occasionally, however, through misprints or mischief, books would be published with instructions so grievously wrong that they would make Neville Longbottom's most spectacular failures look unimpressive.

It was the sound of voices that made him stop walking—the sound of _her_ voice, to be precise. He listened. Yes, it was her voice; hers, and Neville Longbottom's.

"Speak of the devil," he muttered, turning the corner. She had her back to him and Longbottom was too preoccupied to notice that Severus was watching.

"I just wanted to thank you," the boy said in a low voice, gazing down at her. "I'm sure you weren't comfortable at all, but I'm… glad you were there. I wouldn't have liked to be there alone, I don't think."

Severus couldn't see her, but from the tone of her voice when she answered, he could tell she was smiling. "It was the least I could do after all you've done for me, Neville," she said. "I know it's not the improvement you hoped, but it's so much better than it was, you must be so happy."

He returned her smile. "I am. And having you there with me just made it all the better."

"I'm really glad for you, Neville."

Neville looked at her tenderly, placing his hand on her forearm. Severus' hand twitched towards his wand.

"Hermione, I've—I know it's still really soon after you and Ron, but I—"

Even from down the hallway, Severus could see her muscles tense up.

"Neville, I thought—I mean, at the Halloween ball, you said—"

"I didn't want you to feel bad, Hermione. We all sort of assumed you and Ron would get married at the end of the year. There was no reason to tell you it was you that I—that I—Hermione, I've always loved you, ever since our first year, even since that first day on the Hogwarts Express—"

"Neville," she said softly, and Severus had to strain to hear hr. He wasn't entirely sure what that tone in her voice meant, and he felt a sudden irrational panic over it.

"I know you couldn't possibly feel the same way for me, not yet, but I hoped that eventually…" He trailed off, looking anxiously at her. Severus, too, watched anxiously, but she didn't say anything. If he closed his eyes, Severus could see her biting her lip, could see the uncertain look in her eye as she looked back up at Longbottom.

Somewhere in the region of his stomach, an unreasoning, boiling rage was beginning to burn.

"Hermione," said Longbottom in an unfamiliar tone, and then he bent his head over her and Severus knew, knew beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt, that he'd kissed her.

He stared, dumbstruck, and felt guilty that he was staring. He was sure that at any moment she would pull away, perhaps even slap him across the face for being so forward. She certainly did not respond with much visible enthusiasm. Still, he'd caught her with Weasley once and she hadn't been terribly enthusiastic then, either. Perhaps she simply wasn't very enthusiastic when it came to physical demonstrations of affection.

Severus swallowed. Longbottom's head was still bent, Hermione's hair obscuring anything else Severus might see. He should interrupt, should dock points, should shout and rage at them.

But he couldn't move.

_She_ couldn't move. That was the only explanation. Perhaps he'd petrified her. One of Longbottom's hands, streaks of dirt still lodged beneath the fingernails, moved hesitantly up to touch her hair. At that, Severus felt ill and turned away, unable to watch anymore.

He took an alternate route to the library and by the time he'd made it to the door, Hermione, rather red in the face, was nearly there herself. He stopped, looking down his nose at her with a sneer.

"Miss Granger," he said coldly.

"Professor Snape! I was just going to do some research for my essay on—"

"I am not interested."

"Oh." She looked surprised and hurt, and he rather regretted saying it, although not so much that he could stop his next remark.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for making a spectacle of yourself in the hallway with Neville Longbottom."

Her face, already rosy, flooded with color and she looked away. "I didn't know that you—I mean, I—I wasn't aware that anyone saw that."

"Whether anyone _saw_ or not is immaterial," he hissed. "What _is_ material is that it was a violation of school rules. Furthermore, I am absolutely appalled to see you degrading yourself in such a manner. If you choose to engage in romantic liaisons with your classmates, have the dignity not to sully yourself with idiots like Longbottom."

"_Sully_ myself?" she repeated in disbelief. "I don't see where it's any of your business what Neville—"

"Oh, but it _is_ my business. Or have you forgotten that your actions no longer concern only yourself?"

"Of all the selfish things to—"

"Silence! Ten more points for rudeness and contradicting a teacher."

"You can't take points off of me for—for private matters!"

"Miss Granger," he said coldly, "we have no private matters."

"In that case," she retorted furiously, "who I kiss has absolutely nothing to do with you, _sir_."

She walked past him into the library and he stared after her with a sinking feeling that he had just come out very much the loser in that exchange.

Of course, she was quite correct. If there was nothing private between them, he had no call whatsoever to criticize her choice of boyfriend… if that's what Longbottom was.

That, unfortunately, did nothing whatsoever to appease his disappointment in her and his anger at Longbottom. His plans for assisting Madam Pince in the library entirely forgotten, he turned on his heel and stalked away, his robes billowing out behind him.

It was madness, absolute madness to imagine that he cared who she kissed.

It was madness to be so appalled at the idea that she might kiss anyone at all.

Had he considered it, he wouldn't have imagined that he'd have difficulty with either Hermione or himself engaging in a romantic relationship sometime in the future. He'd never had much reason to pursue a relationship, but now that he'd finally begun to leave Lily's ghost behind, the idea hovered in the back of his mind, both tantalizing and intimidating. There was no rule that said having an association of some sort with Hermione meant associating with her friends or lovers.

The thought of Hermione having lovers turned his stomach, and he threw the doors of the Entrance Hall open and strode outside, eager for fresh air. The clouds were white and heavy, and it smelled like snow. He trudged to the edge of the lake and threw himself onto the ground, ignoring the cold and staring moodily across the ice.

Unthinkable, that he could be… _jealous_.

Insupportable, to imagine having any sort of—of extra-curricular affection for a student. Even were it appropriate, it would still be illegal.

_At least until the end of term_, amended a treacherous voice in the back of his mind. He clapped both his hands tightly over his ears, as if to block the voice out, and stared morosely into the distance.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks, as always, to Renita, Harmony, Juno, and all the other people who encouraged me through the writing of this chapter. 

I do adore Neville so completely. I needed to do something nice for him, to make up for the fact that that he simply won't be getting the girl in this story.

Thanks also to all the readers and reviewers. You're the ones who make this fun.


	48. Expecto Patronum

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 48: Expecto Patronum**

* * *

"What do you propose we do, Severus?" 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was not a man who fidgeted. In fact, as far as Severus could tell, he had trained himself out of all nervous habits and tells—as a good Auror should. Severus, however, was a spy, and he knew full well that if Kingsley _were_ a man who fidgeted, he would be fidgeting now.

"Allow Percy to continue his deception. I do not feel it is safe any more than Molly Weasley does, but he does have some idea of how to act and, most importantly, Malfoy and Selwyn haven't caught on to him. I have already spoken with him on the matter—he is willing to keep going. As long as they believe he is on their side, they will continue to give him information about other Death Eaters still at large."

"You're quite sure?"

"Quite. They are attempting to rebuild their infrastructure, ostensibly along more… Democratic lines. Draco Malfoy intends to take a page from his father's book and buy his way into power. However, he lacks something of Lucius' eye for subtlety. I doubt very much if he will become as formidable an opponent as his father would have been."

Minerva frowned. "I don't like this, Severus. Percy Weasley is so young."

"Nonsense. He is a grown wizard of relative intelligence and significant enough power that he can command respect amongst his… peers."

"I don't like the idea of the Weasleys losing another child, with everything they've already been through."

Kingsley pursed his lips. "Minerva, the Weasleys understand what he is risking. They have never shirked their part in the war effort before."

"Selwyn is a ruthless killer, Severus! If he finds out about Percy, he'll torture him. You know he will."

"Indeed," said Severus, more calmly than he felt, "it will make Lee Jordan's injuries look like mere child's play."

"And this is what you suggest we allow him to walk into!"

"Minerva, I merely suggest that we allow him to continue with our oversight what he has already been doing without it. The information he can gather is invaluable to us."

"Let someone else gather it," she snapped.

"Who do you propose? Your former favorite spy has been revealed, as you yourself have so recently informed me. Nymphadora Tonks is dead. The Ministry is already stretched to its limit and cannot provide Aurors. Percy Weasley is already an accepted Death Eater who is willing to do the job."

"Minerva," said Kingsley slowly, "Severus is right. Weasley is placed to bring down the entire Death Eater network, if things fall out the way we hope they will."

Her back tensed in such a way that made Severus think she'd be angrily twitching her tail if she were in her Animagus form. "And if it does not, Molly and Arthur lose another child. Bad enough for Fred to be killed and Ronald to have grown so absolutely unmanageable, but to lose Percy as well—"

"Is, as I have already pointed out to you, a sacrifice that they are willing to make. He is no younger than Molly and Arthur were themselves when they first joined the Order, and put their own lives at risk. For that matter, he is not far from the age that I myself was when I did exactly what he is doing now—and, as you see, I have survived."

"You and Percy Weasley can hardly be compared in any aspect," she said crisply.

"I grant you, the similarities are very few. Ultimately, however, I do not see that you have much say in the matter, Minerva. He will continue at it whether you authorize it or not. He is, after all, a Gryffindor. It would be prudent, therefore, to take advantage of what he is offering rather than running the risk that he will engage in some ridiculous act of vigilantism at an inopportune moment."

She folded her hands carefully, a very unhappy look on her face. "Do you honestly believe he can do it, Severus?"

He shrugged. "I believe that he is the best option we have and that it would be irresponsible not to utilize him. We need information. My knowledge is swiftly becoming outdated."

Minerva sighed, defeated. "Very well. Let him continue, then."

"As to Malfoy," said Kingsley thoughtfully, "Do you believe he poses a serious danger to Miss Granger and yourself?"

Severus did what he could to ignore most of his thoughts about Hermione, even as he considered how to protect her. "While I wish that I could say he does not, he certainly managed to get Death Eaters into Hogwarts in his sixth year. While Albus might not have been as vigilant as he would have been if he had not been planning—if he had not expected Draco's attempt on his life and did not particularly wish to hinder it, it was still quite a feat. If he is truly bent on attacking her, he will."

"You were his godfather. _Is_ he truly bent on it, do you think?"

He looked down at his right hand, rubbing his thumb over a callus. "Yes."

"For what possible reason?"

"Oh come, Minerva, surely even you can imagine that Draco holds Miss Granger responsible for his change in status. Regardless of his feelings on me as a traitor or otherwise, you are a pureblood. You ought to be well aware of his drop in status, between having been disowned and expelled. I am not surprised in the least that he holds her responsible."

"I had not thought of Draco as being so bloodthirsty."

He inspected the callus again, looking grave. "Nor had I, Minerva, but let us not forget that he is, in the end, the son of Lucius Malfoy—and he is under great provocation."

"The Ministry is ill-equipped to offer her protection, Minerva, but we will do what we can—"

Minerva glanced at Dumbledore, who appeared to be asleep. "That won't be necessary, Kingsley. There are seven Order members at the school, and that is not counting Miss Granger herself."

"If she needs to leave the school at any time and you cannot spare someone to escort her, let me know and I will do what I can to send an Auror."

"Thank you, Kingsley. As for you, Severus—"

"I think," he said disdainfully, "that I can protect myself against Draco Malfoy."

"Nevertheless, you are one man, and he is in touch with the entire Death Eater network, or what is left of it. I would prefer that you not leave the school unaccompanied either."

He scowled. "You _must_ be joking."

"On the contrary, Severus. I could not be more serious. I am not Dumbledore, and I will not have you risking your life unnecessarily when it could be protected by the very simple expedient of giving you a—"

"A travel buddy?" he sneered.

"If you wish to put it in such a juvenile manner, I will not contradict you," she said primly.

"Minerva, Kingsley, I hope you will excuse me. I have a class to teach in ten minutes, and I wish to retrieve my materials beforehand. Minerva, we will continue to discuss this later—possibly tomorrow, after I return from escorting Petunia Dursley to Azkaban… alone. I am not seventeen and I do not need to be babysat."

He could not be entirely certain, but he had an unsettling suspicion that he heard her mutter, "that's a matter of opinion" as he left the room.

0 0 0

Azkaban loomed on the horizon like a scar across the gray sky. A high wind was blowing and whipped the rain and surf into Severus' face so hard that it stung. Petunia, bundled into a heavy wool coat and a silver and green scarf produced by Kreacher and ostensibly stolen from Regulus Black's bedroom, stared across the expanse of sea at the gloomy island. Severus, for his part, looked at the scarf, trying not to smirk at it. He doubted that Petunia had any idea what it represented, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt that it was quite appropriate to her.

"That's it?"

"Azkaban Prison," he said, with a feeling of profound distaste for the very name.

"And that's where Lucius is?"

He curled his lip disdainfully. "It is the Wizard prison. Lucius Malfoy is a very powerful and was once a very influential man. I doubt very much that a Muggle prison would hold him for more than the time it took him to cast an unlocking charm."

"And there are Dementors in there?"

"You have known for years that there are," he said with a sneer.

"They attacked Dudley."

"Did they _really_?"

"Of course they did," she snapped, as if it were common knowledge.

He frowned. "I was not aware. I rather suspected Potter was making it up."

"Harry wouldn't be able to lie his way out of a paper bag," she sniffed. "Are we going, or not? I don't like standing here and just staring at it. It's… creepy."

He pulled his watch from his pocket, checking it. "In one more minute, Petunia. We are not able to simply Apparate to the prison. It has anti-Apparition wards upon it to ensure that nobody escapes."

She hugged herself, rubbing her arms with her palms for warmth. "As if I'd let anybody take me anywhere by Apparition."

He smiled coldly and drew a small, rather battered-looking leather journal from his pocket, checking his watch again.

"Mistrustful of Wizarding means of travel, Petunia?"

"I live in Harry's house. It doesn't mean I approve of his lifestyle or think there's a single safe thing about it."

"A pity," he sighed, "how your opinions have changed over the years."

"I am not here for another of your reminiscent little chats, Severus. I'm here to visit Lucius."

He looked out across the sea again, gazing at the straight, black walls of the prison. "Yes. It is a good deed to visit those who are in prison, is it not, Petunia? Especially when they are such… old friends."

"Yes," she said stiffly, "he is an old friend."

"The more fool you. Lucius has never had a true friend in his life."

"Just because _you_ haven't," she sneered mockingly, "is no need to impugn _him_."

"You are an idiot, Petunia, as I have frequently told you in the past, and I am here solely because there are things I want from you. Now—" he checked his watch once more "—I think you might be interested in this."

He passed the leather journal over to her. Just as her hand closed on it, it glowed blue, and they were jerked out of existence and then deposited almost immediately before the doors of Azkaban.

She dropped the journal very quickly.

"That," she said angrily, "was a dirty trick."

"I'm flattered that you noticed. I have a reputation to maintain. Now, let me explain a few things. You will not be allowed to see him alone. You will not be allowed physical contact. You will not be allowed to carry any magical objects on your person, and you will be inspected for them beforehand. You will not, under _any_ circumstances, go near a Dementor, and if I give you a piece of chocolate, you will eat it immediately."

"_Chocolate_?"

"Yes," he said in a bored voice. "It has magical properties. Did Lily never tell you?"

"Chocolate has magical properties?" she repeated, dumbfounded.

"Goodness, Petunia, I thought even someone like you might have guessed at that by now."

"Chocolate? Really?"

She sounded horrified, and he smiled maliciously at her, enjoying her expression as she realized that she'd spent her entire life enjoying a magical compound as a sweet.

"It will counteract some of the effects of being with the Dementors. You will not attempt to give any to Malfoy."

"What do the Dementors look like?"

He raised his eyebrows. "It does not matter. You will not be able to see them."

"How will I be able to avoid them, then?"

The massive doors finally swung open and he took her arm courteously, gripping her tightly by the wrist to keep her from worming away from him.

"You will feel them," he said softly, and they walked into the darkness.

0 0 0

Hermione curled up in a chair in the Common Room, her cheek resting on her hand. A book lay forgotten on her lap as she looked at the fire, which crackled merrily away, as always. Her mind was wandering somewhere dark, through bad memories, all of the sad and miserable things that had happened to them since their very first year at Hogwarts and, in spite of the heat from the fire, she felt chilled and stiff.

A tall, dark form blocked her view. She blinked slowly for a moment and then, feeling as if she were moving through icy water, she raised her head.

"Oh, hello, Neville," she said, looking down at her book and trying to remember what it was. "I've just been reading—er—this book."

He looked at her anxiously. "No you haven't. I've been watching you for the last half-hour and you haven't even looked at it."

"I've got things on my mind." She frowned suddenly, looking around the Common Room. "You've been watching me for half an hour? I didn't see you."

"Hermione, of course you didn't see me. You haven't even _moved_."

"I was thinking, I guess. I—I don't feel very well."

He knelt down, bringing himself face-to-face with her. His height was even more imposing when she was sitting down. It was almost impossible to remember that once the gangly young man kneeling in front of her had been a small, chubby boy, except that the round, sweet face was still the same.

"I'm worried about you." He brought his hand up and wrapped it around her wrist. "Merlin, Hermione, you're _freezing_."

"I am?" she said vaguely. "I thought it must have just been my imagination."

"No." He'd moved his palm to her forehead, and then her cheek, looking more and more concerned. "Your skin feels like ice. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course I am," she mumbled, her mind feeling fuzzy. "I'm just cold."

"You're more than cold. I think Madame Pomfrey ought to have a look at you."

"You don't need to do that," she whispered, a profound sense of depression beginning to overtake her. "It doesn't matter, you can just leave me here. Oh Neville, I'm so sorry I didn't notice how you felt about me all these years. I've been such an awful friend, I—"

"Hermione, something's _wrong_. Get up. I'm going to take you to see Madame Pomfrey."

She looked blankly at him for a minute. He extended his hand to her and she closed her book and placed her white, shaking hand on his palm. She could see goose bumps spreading up his arm as he closed his fingers around hers. He helped her to her feet, but she stumbled almost immediately afterwards, and he had to catch her.

He looked down into her face for a moment with a very worried look. "Your lips are going blue. You haven't had anything strange to eat or drink, have you? A potion?"

"No," she murmured, swaying a bit and clutching him for support. "Why is it so dark in here?"

"Dark? It isn't dark."

"It is. Did it start storming out?"

"Hermione, it's bright daylight. Come on. Can you walk at all?"

"Neville?" Harry's sharp voice cut momentarily through Hermione's strange befuddlement and she lifted her head, trying to discover where he was. "What's wrong with Hermione?"

She opened her mouth to tell Harry that he didn't need to sound so worried about her, that she was just feeling a little cold and sad—nothing strange for a winter day—when she lost her balance again. Neville caught her up in both of his arms, Harry shouted something, and, just before everything went black, Professor Snape said her name.

0 0 0

"Professor Snape," said the guard deferentially—Slytherin, Muggle-born. Severus thought for a moment and then produced the name Andrew Atwood from his memory.

"Atwood," he said coldly. "Ten years out of school and guarding Azkaban? I'm sorry to see you've done so little with your aptitude for Transfiguration."

Atwood smiled viciously. "Azkaban has its compensations, sir, and there_ are_ occasions to use Transfiguration around here. Name of your guest?"

"Petunia Dursley," he drawled. "Here to visit Lucius Malfoy."

Atwood's rather tanned face turned an unpleasant shade of pale yellow. "Malfoy, sir? I was told you were visiting, but not that—"

"It has been cleared by the Minister. If you wish to consult with the head warden, I will not complain."

Atwood's Adam's apple bobbed, and he looked down at his list of approved visitors.

"Er, no, sir, I think you can be trusted. Well, I've got you logged down. I suppose you'd like to go right away?"

"Indeed. Azkaban is hardly a tourist destination, and I have no desire to linger."

"Well, you'll both need to surrender your wands when we get down there, but there are Dementors about. Can you cast a Patronus, Miss Dursley?"

"It's—it's Miss Evans, actually," said Petunia, giving Severus a look that warned him very plainly not to comment on it. "And I certainly can_not_. I am not a witch."

"Oh a squib, then? I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realize. I'll just make a note—"

"_Miss Evans_," said Severus, laying sardonic emphasis on the name, "is a Muggle, Atwood."

"A Muggle? You brought a Muggle to Azkaban?"

"With, as I mentioned, the clearance of the Minister. Again, if you wish to consult—"

"It's just a procedural matter, it won't take more than a minute," said Atwood nervously. "You don't mind?"

"Had I minded, I would not have made the suggestion. Miss… Evans… if you would like to be seated, Atwood must confirm with the head warden that you are, in fact, supposed to be here and are not simply food for the Dementors."

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Atwood to satisfy himself that Kingsley Shacklebolt really had given permission for Petunia to not only enter Azkaban, but to visit one of its most closely guarded prisoners. For the first ten of those minutes, neither Severus nor Petunia spoke to one another. She was growing increasingly white, casting nervous glances around at the damp, black walls. Severus, for his part, was beginning to feel a chill that he recognized as being not just from their position on a tiny, frigid island in the sea, but from the Dementors who roamed the corridors and fed on the souls of their charges.

"This place is abominable," said Petunia.

"It is a prison."

"It's_ miserable_."

"Ah, yes—but the Dementors _will_ insist on sucking the happiness out of a place no matter how many amenities one provides. The price one pays," he murmured, as if he were discussing a particularly recalcitrant servant.

"It's inhumane."

He drew his cloak somewhat closer around himself, although he knew it would do nothing to ward off the chill. "The Minister has made some motion towards removing the Dementors from the prison, but he has met with considerable resistance from the Wizengamot and portions of Wizarding society. They feel it is, ah… _unwise_ to hold dangerous criminals without ensuring quite thoroughly that they are both physically and psychologically incapable of making good their escape."

"People have escaped before, though. Hestia told me. Hestia Jones."

He watched her nudging a pebble across the wet stone floor with her toe, which was clad in an impeccably stylish and incredibly impractical shoe. "I am aware of Hestia's last name, Petunia," he said dryly. "And yes, people have escaped. However, those escapes were made possible only after the rise of the Dark Lord. The Dementors rather prefer being in his service to being in ours."

She did not respond to that and began toeing the pebble again instead. He watched in silence.

"Why do you call him the Dark Lord?" she asked abruptly, looking at him. She was shivering and he wondered fleetingly what thoughts the Dementors might conjure up within her.

"It is difficult to explain, and I have no desire to do so."

"Is it something to do with being a Death Eater?"

"Something," he said coldly.

"Too respectful, if you ask me," she sniffed.

"Thankfully, I did _not_ ask you."

"Well," she began, but he was saved from the necessity of listening to her next comment by Andrew Atwood's return.

"All clear," said the guard, casting a glance at the locked and barred door into the corridor. "Sorry for the inconvenience, professor, but you know how it is."

"Yes, Atwood. If all is in order, it is high time we went."

"Yes. Wand out, if you don't mind. It's nice to have a bit of backup, and I—I have a little trouble with my Patronus sometimes." He shivered. "The Dementors aren't supposed to go after the guards, but they're a bit hard to control since last year. Not that I was allowed to come to work last year," he added inconsequentially. "For a while I was afraid I might come in just to be tossed into a cell. This way, then."

Wand out, he led the way into a passageway that was, if anything, even darker than the small foyer they'd been waiting in so far. Severus allowed Petunia to go ahead and then followed up behind, holding his wand out cautiously. He had no desire to meet a Dementor up close.

Severus had enough terrible memories to last him for several lifetimes of torture in Azkaban.

They ascended steadily, winding their way through narrow, dripping passageways, where the walls were lined with ice and the puddles on the floors crunched beneath their feet. They could see their breath, escaping them in white puffs of steam and dissipating into the dank air as if they had never been at all. His hand was so numb that he could barely feel his wand.

"Almost there," said Atwood bracingly as they reached the top of yet another narrow, slippery flight of stairs. There were no windows anywhere to be seen. They were deep in the heart of the prison.

He led them down a long corridor that slowly began to open up, until it was wide enough that they could walk abreast instead of single file. As they walked on, they began to see heavy doors, locked and warded more securely even than those of Gringotts. It occurred to Severus that, if Kingsley ever did succeed in removing the Dementors from Azkaban, Goblins might be a suitable replacement.

They passed another stretch of empty wall, blank except for the stinking rivulets of brackish water and, occasionally, a sputtering green torch that seemed to cast hardly any light at all. This passageway was a dead end, and Severus could see the wall ahead of them now, with one small, single door set into it, flanked by torches.

Outside of the door, three Dementors floated, guarding it.

"Three of them, Atwood?" he whispered, appalled. He'd never heard of more than one being assigned to a single prisoner. They'd stopped walking, nobody wanting to approach any closer just yet. The floor and walls had gone from black to bright white with frost.

"Three of what?" asked Petunia sharply.

"Dementors. And it's not my decision, sir," said Atwood unhappily. "I'd be just as glad to be rid of them."

"One does wonder why the boy who could barely repel a Boggart would wind up working a job where he was required to face Dementors every day."

Atwood glanced at him, and suddenly Severus had another memory, the day he'd heard the report given to Voldemort's inner circle that Atwood's Muggle parents had been brutally slaughtered for having the temerity to give birth to a magical child.

"It has its compensations," said Atwood again. "Miss Evans, if you'll just wait here for a moment. Professor Snape, do you think you could give me a hand?"

"Wait here?" said Petunia in a frantic voice. "Alone? Severus, I can't see them!"

It was a mark of the effect they were having on her, he supposed, that she was willing to reveal her fear to him and practically ask him not to leave her alone. He, for his part, was beginning to feel physically ill from the proximity to the creatures.

"Stay where you are," he said sharply, "or you will regret it. You have no way to repel them."

He left her visibly trembling, hunched against a frozen wall as he and Atwood moved forward. Atwood pointed his wand at one of the stones and a small side door appeared, a gaping black slice gouged out of the frost-white wall.

"Holding chamber," whispered Atwood tersely, his wand shaking in his hand. "_Expecto Patronum_," he muttered, but nothing happened. "Damn it," he said, and then, louder, "_Expecto Patronum_!" But again, there was nothing.

By now, the Dementors had sensed them and were advancing. The chill that had seemed as if it could grow no worse was increasing steadily, and Severus felt a terrible urge to weep. Everybody was gone. Nothing was left to him. His mother, Lily, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, his son, Albus—all were dead. He had saved none of them. Their deaths weighed on his heart. His fault. His bloody fault. The cloaked, hooded figures were almost upon them and he'd forgotten what he was meant to do. Beside him, distantly, he heard Atwood muttering something, saw the faint silver mist that drifted ineffectually from the tip of his wand.

They were all dead. His fault. If only they had never seen him. If only he had never been born—they would all be alive. They would be happy—if not for him.

"_Expecto Patronum_" he said halfheartedly when he finally remembered the incantation through the haze of misery that had descended upon him. Nothing happened. He could think of nothing happy. The image of Lily's severed hand hovered before him, of Albus falling endlessly to the ground from the highest tower of Hogwarts castle. The Dementors were closing in. What had he been thinking, trusting Andrew Atwood, the boy who had failed his Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL twice, to lead him into the depths of Azkaban?

_Dead_, whispered the cruel voice in his head, _all dead_.

And the girl, too, would die. He was a tainted man. Poisoned. She would die somehow, because of him, her fate approaching as inexorably as that of all the rest.

But the thought of her buoyed him for a moment and he suddenly found within himself, as clearly as if he could see it in front of him, the pure, white imprint of her soul upon his.

"Hermione," he whispered, and then, just before he was sure darkness would overcome him completely, he roared, "_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_" and a lithe, silvery animal burst from his wand, leaving warmth and peace in its wake.

A moment later, Atwood's Patronus, too, escaped from his wand—a goshawk, with a sharp, curved beak and bright eyes. Both of the silver guardians moved gracefully through the air, driving the Dementors inexorably towards the holding chamber.

It took Severus another moment to realize that the goshawk was not accompanied by a doe, but by another animal altogether.

0 0 0

"Eat this," said Madame Pomfrey as her face materialized slowly before Hermione's eyes. She was waving something at Hermione's face, from which a sweet, familiar smell wafted. Behind the matron, she could see Neville, Harry and Ginny, watching her anxiously.

"Where's Professor Snape?" she mumbled in confusion, turning her head to look for him on the other side of the bed. He wasn't there. "Did he leave already?"

"Snape?" repeated Harry. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, feeling oddly disappointed. "He left already."

"Professor Snape left?" said Madame Pomfrey, narrowing her eyes. "What do you mean, he left?"

"He was here," said Hermione, her vision clearing more and more by the second. It was chocolate that Madame Pomfrey was waving at her, and she reached up to take it. "Or—not here. He was in the Common Room. How did he get into the Common Room?"

"Snape was never in the Common Room, Hermione," said Harry, frowning now.

She looked around at them.

"But I heard him," she said. "He said my name."

"He was never here," said Harry gently, in a tone that reminded her very much of the way she'd broken the news to him that nobody screamed in the train compartment when they'd had their first encounter with Dementors.

Dementors…. She looked down at the piece of chocolate in her hand and brought it to her lips, taking a sniff of it before she put it into her mouth. It smelled lovely and sweet, and she bit off a chunk.

Even before she'd swallowed it, she felt a rush of warmth. The smooth sweetness of melting chocolate coated her tongue. She'd never been much for chocolate—her parents had seen to that—but this was delicious and satisfying, like the first full meal they'd had after weeks of near-starvation in the Forest of Dean.

"Did that help?" asked Madame Pomfrey, watching her closely.

"Yes. Madame Pomfrey, there—there wasn't a Dementor in the Common Room, was there?" she asked feebly, aware as she said it how completely implausible it was.

"No," said Madame Pomfrey in a strange voice. "Finish the chocolate. You appear to be recovering quite nicely. Once you've eaten all of it, you may leave, I think."

"But if there weren't Dementors, then how--?"

The matron picked up her wrist, taking her pulse and then frowning thoughtfully. "I don't know. Finish the chocolate. I must speak with Professor Snape. This is his area of expertise, not mine."

0 0 0

The Dementors safely driven back and imprisoned, Atwood tapped his wand on the wall opposite the holding chamber. Another door revealed itself, which he opened, holding it for Petunia and then for Severus before he followed them in and closed the door.

Severus felt in his robes and drew out two carefully wrapped bars of fine chocolate, one of which he passed to Petunia. Atwood had already produced his own from his robes and was chewing on it with a look of profound relief.

"Eat it all," said Severus.

Petunia, still white and trembling, gave him a look of disbelief. "You aren't actually asking me to believe that chocolate is going to do a damn thing to—"

"Language, Petunia," he drawled, having swallowed his first bite already and feeling infinitely better for it. "There are gentlemen present."

Looking irritated, Petunia broke off a piece of chocolate and put it in her mouth with a look of extreme distaste. A moment later, however, her shivering subsided and a splash of color returned to her cheeks, although it did nothing to improve her appearance.

"Professor Snape, you'll need to lock your wand in here," said Atwood briskly, opening a small compartment in the side of the wall. "And both of you will need to be searched. Then we can go ahead."

He searched Severus first, allowing Petunia time to finish her chocolate, which she was doing most unwillingly. Severus stood still, his arms out as Atwood ran the probity probe over him and performed various Dark-detecting charms. Petunia submitted to the search with slightly better grace than she had yet exhibited and then she sat down at the small, rickety table that sat in the middle of the room. Severus moved back to one corner, hovering in the darkness where Lucius was least likely to see him. He was in no mood for a confrontation.

"I'll be right back, then," said Atwood, disappearing through the door, which swung closed immediately with the click of a magical lock.

He was gone just long enough to allow Severus' long-habitual paranoia to surface and wonder if he _was_ coming back. Then the lock clicked again and the door opened.

The manacled man who stumbled forward did not resemble Lucius Malfoy in the slightest. His hair had been cropped close around his head, his always clean-shaven face was covered with grime and stubble. He was thin and his blue fingers seemed to have acquired a permanent tremor. Still, he carried himself with the same hauteur and grace as he always had. Severus was torn between loathing and admiration.

Although his posture was as straight and correct as ever, Lucius kept his eyes on the floor like a proper prisoner. Atwood had his wand pressed into Lucius' back and a look of loathing on his face. Severus suddenly had a new appreciation for his statement that being an Azkaban guard had its compensations, and a new sense of pity for Lucius.

"Lucius?" said Petunia in a very small voice.

Lucius' head snapped up, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a feral, most uncharacteristic grimace.

"Miss Petunia Evans, visiting prisoner DE-20739," intoned Atwood in a formal voice. A small device on the wall rang out with a sweet, bell-like noise, and then subsided back into silence.

"You've got twenty minutes. The bell will go off after ten, and again after fifteen."

"I suppose it's too much to ask that you might help me to my chair," said Lucius coldly, doing a passable job of hiding the effect to which the Dementors had surely tormented him. Atwood grabbed him by the elbow and thrust him into the chair opposite Petunia's, and then retreated to the wall, his wand still out and his eyes fixed untrustingly on Lucius' back.

"Lucius," said Petunia, with a glance at the timekeeper on the wall.

Lucius folded his chained hands together, resting them on the table and inspecting one dirt-crusted fingernail. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss—Evans, was it?"

The color drained from Petunia's cheeks again. "You might be more familiar with me by my—my married name. I'm Petunia Dursley."

"Dursley?" He repeated slowly. "Petunia Dursley--my goodness," he suddenly said, his bright blue eyes going very wide. "It _has_ been a long time."

"Yes," she said, visibly relieved.

"Well, well, Petunia. I must say, the years have been… kind to you." It was a bald lie, and everyone in the room knew it. Petunia, however, seemed to be struggling to ignore it.

"You look terrible," she said brusquely. "Is there anything you need?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Need? I? Oh I think not; not anything that _you_ could provide for me, at any rate." His eyes moved over her body and he leered at her.

"I heard you were in prison. I had to visit you," she whispered, her eyes taking on a tender expression that Severus had never seen in them before.

Merlin. She was in love with him. In love with Lucius Malfoy, and after so many years. Severus watched, appalled. She seemed to have completely forgotten that anyone else was even there. He'd had no idea that Lucius had done such a good job on her.

"What a noble gesture," drawled Lucius. "I _am_ surprised. I was under the impression that you did not much care for _my_ kind."

"Maybe not the rest of them," she said softly, "but you. Always you, Lucius."

"How touching," he murmured coldly, "to know you have been thinking of me."

"All of these years, Lucius—you never gave me a way to find you."

"Did I not? How very… forgetful of me."

"I've been told," she said very carefully, "that you're in here for being a Death Eater."

A feral, angry look passed over Lucius' face and was then quickly smoothed away. He gave her a cool, close-lipped smile. "I _was_ a Death Eater," he said with a passable imitation of regret, "but I had hoped that recent events would have thrown me in a better light than they did. I did not even take part in the final battle, you know. Yes, I turned against the Dark Lord before he fell. Unfortunately, some people still have a vendetta against me."

"Who?" she asked angrily.

"Oh dear, Petunia, but don't you _know_? Surely you can guess. He's carried on a long family tradition of being a thorn in both of our sides." He gave her a cold, conspiratorial smile. She took it exactly as he obviously intended her to, and scowled in righteous indignation.

"_Harry_," she snapped. "I should have known."

"Indeed, you should," he said amusedly. "After all, you ended up raising the boy, did you not? How terribly ironic, after all your envy."

"Dumbledore left me with no choice," she said angrily. "Nor did James and Lily. For whatever foolish reason, I was listed in their will as a second guardian, in the event of something happening to that godfather of his."

"Ah yes," said Lucius. "_Black_."

"I knew that Severus had to be wrong," she whispered. "I knew you couldn't be as bad as they were making out."

The woman was a damned fool, and Lucius knew it. He was manipulating her spectacularly.

"You always understood me so well, my dear," murmured Lucius most insincerely. "What was it that I used to call you? Ah, yes—_Pet_."

Petunia simpered at Lucius, and Severus cringed. How absolutely predictable and utterly masterful. She had no idea how derogatory it was—obviously assumed it was merely a shortening of her name. But no. No such kindness from Lucius. Severus knew better. He knew far too well.

"My little Muggle pet," Lucius continued, sliding his hands across the table. Petunia reached out to him and he clasped her hand in his. "You always were so very… yielding."

It was a talent of Lucius' to tell the truth while twisting it to sound like something absolutely different. Petunia blushed, her cheeks turning a horrible shade of maroon at what she assumed was a (somewhat lascivious) compliment. But she _had_ been yielding in more ways than one, and Severus remembered all too well how much information Lucius had harvested from her. Idiot woman.

The chime sounded and Petunia's hand clamped convulsively over Lucius'. His lip curled in disgust, but she was too busy blinking tears from her eyes to notice.

"I wish we had more time," she whispered.

"Ah, but pet, every moment with you is like an eternity."

A noise escaped her that Severus managed, after many seconds of thought, to identify as a girlish giggle. From the look on Atwood's face, he imagined that no such sound had ever been heard in the room before.

"I may not be able to see you again," he said silkily. "This place that Potter has consigned me to drives men mad, pet. Surely you've felt it. Surely you've felt _them_."

For the first time, Severus believed that Lucius had expressed an honest thought. There was a fear in his eyes that could not be achieved by pretense. Being under constant guard by three Dementors without recourse to a wand or a retreat of any sort would break a man in very little time at all.

"Oh Lucius… isn't there any hope?"

"None, I am afraid. You raised your nephew to be particularly _noble_."

"I'm sorry, Lucius. I'm so, so sorry."

"It is not for you to apologize," he murmured with a saintly expression. "After all, pet, bad blood will out. One must remember that he was Potter's son."

"If anybody has been noble, it's you, Lucius." Her eyes were shining, her hand still resting on his.

"I cannot express to you what that means to me, pet," said Lucius dryly.

"Surely you can complain—surely you can argue that Harry is prejudiced against you."

"Oh no," said Lucius, his eyes gleaming wickedly with the lie on his lips. "Until I can forget my love of his mother, I could never expose her son."

"After all these years?" she gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth, tears filling her eyes. "You'd be willing to die for _her_ son's reputation? I—I had hoped that perhaps _I_ might…"

Severus watched and listened in horror. He wished that he could intervene, but he was barred from speaking, not having been recorded as an official visitor. He was not capable of it.

Lucius reached for her hand, patting it consolingly. "You have done so much for me. I promise you, my affections have… changed. But I must always remember her."

"Of course," said Petunia, with a sniffle. The chime had sounded again, but neither had appeared to notice this time, and now Atwood was advancing again.

"Time's up," he said brusquely, with a dirty look at Lucius. "On your feet."

"Lovely to see you, as ever, Petunia," drawled Lucius, even as he was being dragged to his feet and prodded out of the room. Petunia sobbed into her hands as he left. Severus devoutly hoped that it was due to the Dementors still so close by, and not her sorrow at being parted from Lucius Malfoy.

Neither of them spoke again until they had taken the Portkey back to dry land and he was putting her aboard the train that would take her back to London.

"I'm going to collect my things," she said coldly as he helped her into her compartment, "and leave Grimmauld Place. Inform Harry."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I refuse to stay in his house any longer."

"Petunia, surely you don't believe the drivel he fed you."

"I most certainly do!" she snapped. "It's just like you, trying to turn me against him, telling me all those sneaky little _lies_, when he's obviously not done half the things you claim he has."

"Very well," he snarled, his patience worn thin by nearly an hour in Azkaban, "believe the imprisoned Death Eater and not the man who proved himself loyal. Believe the man who betrayed both you and your sister."

"Lily has nothing to do with this!" she shrieked. "Get out! Get out! I'll find my own way!"

"I'm sure Potter will be most disappointed," he sneered. "I'll be sure to remind him that he ought to merely say 'good riddance' and be done with you. Traitor."

Not waiting for a response, he turned and left her. He wanted only to be back at Hogwarts, back where it was warm, and where the only trouble awaiting him was a bevy of foolish students, a confusing, wide-eyed Gryffindor, and the mystery of his new Patronus. By comparison to dealing with Petunia and Lucius, that didn't seem unpleasant at all.

And it was only when he was settled in his own chambers with a hot cup of tea and a good book that he remembered that he'd neglected to get Lily's letter from Petunia before letting her run away.

0 0 0

Hermione lingered so long over her chocolate that eventually Harry and Ginny had to leave for Quidditch practice, leaving her alone with Neville. He had sat down and was now looking at her fixedly, chewing on his nails and watching as she ate her chocolate.

"I heard Professor Snape yelling at you," he said finally, hanging his head. "I'm sorry."

She sighed, nibbling on the last bit of chocolate. "It isn't your fault that he saw us."

"It's my fault that I kissed you. I knew you weren't ready, and I—I just—I'm so sorry. It was completely wrong of me. I ought to have just stated my intentions and left you alone to consider."

Hermione had never once before considered the fact that Neville was a pureblood wizard and had been raised by a woman who almost certainly insisted on pureblood manners. He was so utterly different from people like the Malfoys that the thought had simply not entered her mind. Now, however, it was more than evident, and he looked absolutely mortified at his slip.

"Professor Snape was right," he said miserably. "I'm not good enough for you. You'd be too nice to ever admit it, but it's the truth."

"Neville, Professor Snape had no business saying anything like that at all."

"I don't know." He paused unhappily. "Hermione, is there—I mean, has he been… courting you?"

Her mouth fell open. "_Courting_ me? Professor _Snape_?"

"Only he's been awfully protective of you lately, and then… well, the way you were talking to each other, about whether or not there were private matters between the two of you. You just sounded so angry at him. I've never heard you talk that way to a professor before. And he sounded—he sounded jealous," he added, looking utterly embarrassed to even be discussing it.

Hermione, for her part, no longer felt cold in the slightest. Her cheeks, in fact, were burning hot.

"Professor Snape is most certainly _not_ courting me, Neville. And thank you very much for your apology. I—I don't really know what to say. I'm a bit shocked that you'd even ask, to be honest."

"Well if he is… I just wanted you to know that you can tell me. I won't be—I won't judge you for it." Neville swallowed, that last promise most obviously having taken Herculean effort on his part to give. "You deserve to be happy, no matter what."

She bit her lip, blinking very hard until the sudden tears that had filled her eyes were gone. "That's awfully sweet, Neville, but he really isn't, you know."

"Okay," said Neville with a mixture of doubt and relief. "Well, you know how I feel now, Hermione. When you're ready—if you're ever ready—I'll be here."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: At long last (a whole five days, heh) a new chapter! 

Some real life stuff has been interfering with writing the last few days. Think I'm past that. Thanks to those of you who asked and worried. :)

Dear Neville. He's so much nicer than Ron. If not for Severus, I'd say he should end up with Hermione.

Thanks yet again to all reviewers, and to all the friends who have cajoled, encouraged, inspired and brainstormed on this chapter over the past week!


	49. Whom My Soul Loves

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 49: Whom My Soul Loves**

* * *

Severus, having warmed himself by the fire and washed the stink of Azkaban off of his body in a very hot shower, stood in the middle of his sitting room, his wand in hand. Every wall was lined with books, and the room was sparsely furnished, except for a low couch, a long table that sat in front of it, and a threadbare green and silver rug worked in intricate patterns. This last was a Prince family heirloom--the only one his mother had inherited. 

The rug was spotless. The Elves had clearly been in while he was away, as he distinctly remembered having left several piles of parchment on the floor. These were now stacked neatly on the table and, of course, completely disarranged.

Normally he would have Floo'd the kitchens to complain, but he had other, much more pressing things to think about.

He raised his wand.

"_Expecto Patronum_."

In the warmth and quiet of his own rooms, it was easy enough to cast the Patronus. He half-expected to see the silver doe, in spite of whatever it was he'd seen in Azkaban. He'd been too shocked to be sure of what it was. All he knew was that it wasn't a doe.

He watched it emerge from his wand and soar into the air, twisting around gracefully to look at him.

He gestured with his wand and the animal came closer, hovering in front of him and staring at him with huge, soulful eyes.

A Patronus, in his opinion, should not have huge, soulful eyes. The doe had been unmanly enough. This was absurd. It did a somersault in mid air, wiggling its bushy tail at him as if daring him to complain that his protector had chosen to assume such a form.

He vanished it with one quick movement of his wand and then did the only reasonable thing that a man in his position could do.

He went to the library.

0 0 0

"Ginny," said Hermione uncertainly, "have you got a minute?"

Ginny, her hair still wet from a post-Quidditch shower, looked up from her Transfiguration text.

"Yes," she said immediately, closing the book as soon as she saw Hermione's face. "What's wrong? Still the… whatever it was?"

"I don't know," said Hermione miserably. "That's what I need to talk to you about."

Ginny sat up, her forehead furrowing. "Okay."

Sighing, Hermione closed the door behind her and threw herself onto Ginny's bed, burying her head in her arms.

"Something happened."

"That much was obvious, Hermione. What happened?"

"I--I don't know."

"Don't feel too bad about that. Not even Madame Pomfrey knew."

"That isn't what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know."

"That doesn't make any sense. You've got to know."

She sat up again, running her hands distractedly through her hair--which only served to tangle it even more badly than it already was--and chewed on her lower lip. "Well, yes, I know what happened, but I don't know _what happened_."

It appeared to take Ginny a moment to work this out.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well it's just that yesterday, I went to St. Mungo's with Neville, and then we were by the library, but then Professor Snape saw us kissing, only I didn't know he saw us, and he seemed really angry about it, and he was awfully--"

"Wait, wait, you kissed Neville?"

She felt her face growing hot. "He kissed me, actually."

Ginny looked interested. "How'd you feel about that?"

"I don't know. I… wasn't expecting it."

"So how was it?"

Hermione grabbed a pillow, fluffing it up compulsively. " It wasn't bad, I guess. I just wasn't really--I don't think of him that way, you know? But Professor Snape just assumed that I was--well, I don't know what he assumed. He was awful, though. He said I was sullying myself with Neville and that it was degrading and--"

"What?" Ginny looked bewildered. "Hermione, why would Professor Snape say anything like that?"

"I don't know, Ginny! That's the point!"

Ginny gave her a hard look. "Hermione, there's got to be something you aren't telling me. Why on earth should Professor Snape care who you snog?"

"He shouldn't."

"Exactly. So why does he?"

Hermione looked around the room. "Ginny, cast _Homenum Revelio_."

"What? Why?"

"Because I've got to tell you a secret."

Ginny cast the charm and then locked the door and, for good measure, cast_ Impervius_ and_ Muffliato _as well.

"Might as well be thorough," she said, shrugging. "Now, what's this big secret?"

"It's not about Professor Snape. Well, not exactly."

Ginny crossed her arms and simply waited.

"It's--it's about the potion."

"Which potion?"

"_Verus Ortus_."

"You mean it's about who you slept with."

She felt her face growing hot, remembered again Draco's hot, moist breath on her face and the swipe of his tongue over her face. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to dispel the images. What had Harry said about Occlumency? Clear the mind. Be calm.

She took several deep breaths and, to her surprise, it seemed to work. The images receded to the back of her mind and she was able to redirect her thoughts.

"I didn't sleep with anyone," she said uncomfortably.

Something in Ginny's eyes flashed, although she kept her voice under control. "You aren't trying to tell me that you lied about not being a virgin, are you? Because that's a lot to put all of us through for something that wasn't even true."

"No, I'm not trying to tell you that. I said I wasn't a virgin. But I also didn't sleep with anyone."

"If you didn't—oh, Merlin. Hermione," Ginny looked stricken. "You weren't--I mean, you didn't get--"

Hermione nodded carefully, not sure how much of her newfound self-control she could retain if she spoke.

"When?" Ginny was aghast.

"Fifth year. After the Ministry."

"Merlin, Hermione. Why didn't you tell us? You at least told Dumbledore, didn't you? Tell me you told someone."

Hermione picked Arnold up from the edge of Ginny's bed and cradled him in one hand, moving her fingers through his soft hair. "I told Professor Snape."

"You told Snape," repeated Ginny flatly. "Of all the people you could tell, you told Snape?"

Hermione's nose began to tingle, and she knew that her face was getting red; tears weren't far behind. "Well I didn't really mean to, he caught me by surprise and it just sort of came out. I was so upset about my mum and dad, and--"

"Wait, when did you tell him?"

Feeling rather guilty, although she didn't know why, Hermione looked away.

"Christmas," she mumbled.

"Christmas."

"Yes."

"Nobody before this Christmas?"

"Well, no. It just never really seemed the right time."

"Hermione! You should at least have told McGonagall, even if you didn't tell Dumbledore. Or Madame Pomfrey. Merlin knows what could have happened to you--"

"Professor Snape made me see Madame Pomfrey," she protested, feeling defensive.

"Oh, brilliant," said Ginny sarcastically. "That makes it all okay then."

"And he--well, he did something about the person who did it."

Ginny ruffled her own hair messily with one hand in an unconscious and amusing imitation of Harry. Hermione managed a watery smile, though it didn't do much to make her feel less maudlin.

"I don't like to ask, Hermione, but was it... someone we know?"

She thought about Draco, thought all the way back to first year and to everything that had happened since. That's when her tenuous grip on her emotions failed.

"I j-just always thought that Hogwarts would be safe," she gasped, her lip quivering. "I should have listened to Moody and been v-vigilant."

"Oh, Hermione, no. Who was it? Tell me. I'll kill him for you. I swear I will."

"I think Professor Snape tried," she admitted ruefully, with a loud sniffle.

"Hermione, what exactly is going on between you and Professor Snape?"

She felt a sudden panic, and was glad that her face was already red from crying, since otherwise she surely would have blushed. She'd never been a very good liar.

"What makes you think anything is going on?"

"Oh I don't know. You come here telling me a story about how he jealously accosted you after you kissed Neville, and now you're saying you told him that you were r--that someone hurt you, and that he went after whoever it was and tried to kill him?"

"Well, maybe tried to kill was a bit of an overstatement," she said feebly.

Ginny considered this for a minute, and then shrugged. "I don't think it was. It didn't sound like it was. Anyway, what's the point here?"

"I don't know," repeated Hermione despairingly. "I just feel so alone," she admitted, sniffling again, her lip beginning to quiver as she gave voice to things she'd refused to speak about this far. "I miss my m-mum and dad, and there's nobody to give me advice, and everybody hates me, and they're all glad I c-can't do magic anymore."

She was crying now, and absolutely ashamed of herself for it. Ginny, however, simply moved her homework and Arnold aside and gave Hermione a long, long hug.

"No wonder you reacted so badly to Ron," Ginny finally said, pulling her knees to her chest and looking at Hermione over them.

"He wasn't to know." She wiped her nose on a handkerchief and sighed.

"He didn't exactly wait to find out what happened, either."

"No, he didn't."

"I wish I could help."

Hermione smiled weakly. "Thanks for listening."

"After all the times you listened to me moping about Harry, I think it's about time I got to repay the favor. Not to compare the two, of course, but—"

Hermione nodded. "I know what you meant. Look, I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean for all of this to come up. I just—I don't know what I really wanted to talk about."

"This, probably," said Ginny, with a wry smile. "Don't be sorry. Who else would you talk to about it?"

Hermione sighed, wiping her eyes again. "Exactly."

"So don't be sorry."

"I think I'm going to go lie down. I'm… tired."

"I don't doubt it. Go have a nap. It'll be dinner in an hour or so. We'll see you there. Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"You, er, I don't suppose you'd let me talk to Harry about it, would you?"

Perhaps if she'd been less exhausted, she might have said no, but she _was_ exhausted, and she already felt so exposed that there didn't seem to be much reason in refusing her permission for something that Ginny would probably go ahead and do in secret anyway.

"Go ahead and tell him, if you like. Just ask him not to go spreading it around, will you?"

Ginny jumped up from the bed and gave her a tight hug. "I'll see you at dinner. Go get a rest."

0 0 0

Severus knocked on the door to Filius Flitwick's office. He'd spent hours in the library, but the conclusions he'd reached made him too uncomfortable for him to allow the possibility of doubt, and the library books, in the end, did not provide all the answers. He had to confirm them with an expert, and Flitwick was a specialist. He was the man to ask.

"Severus!" squeaked Flitwick, standing aside to let him into the office. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wish to consult with you on a matter of some delicacy, Filius." He closed the door and turned his back to Flitwick, pretending to inspect the titles of Flitwick's private library.

"I am at your service, as always. You have some question pertaining to Charms, I imagine?"

"The Patronus Charm."

"Ah, but your own discipline should have familiarized you with that!"

He curled his lip, although Flitwick couldn't see it. "Merely the basics, Filius. I can cast one. I have not made it a special study."

"Of course not, of course not. What is troubling you?"

He touched the spine of a book uneasily, his back still turned. "My Patronus has changed. I do not know why."

"Has it really?" exclaimed Flitwick with a noise of delighted surprise. "To what?"

Severus cleared his throat and finally turned around, sighing resignedly.

"_Expecto Patronum_," he said. Once again, he saw the graceful silver animal burst into the air and turn a joyful somersault. It gamboled around Flitwick's office with a simply indecent amount of energy, peeking curiously into corners and under tables and shelves.

"Good gracious! Is that a--?"

"A seal," growled Severus unwillingly. "A harp seal. A _baby_ harp seal."

"Extraordinary," breathed Flitwick, watching it cavort through the office. "Does that particular animal have any special significance to you?"

"It most certainly does not."

"I see," said Flitwick, who was sounding more and more interested (and therefore more and more excited). "Fascinating. No meaning in it whatsoever, as far as you are aware?"

The seal paused and looked straight at him. He looked back, staring into the huge, uncomfortably familiar eyes, eyes that reminded him so intensely of--

"No."

"You're quite sure?"

"If it did, I doubt I would have come to you admitting that I had no idea why my Patronus has changed."

Flitwick was already riffling through a book. "Well," he said, after several moments of furiously hurried reading, "in some cases, when the Patronus changes, the charm itself will identify and take the form of a certain animal based on the things that inspire it. That is to say, both the things that give you strength and the things that you lack emotionally will be present in the animal."

He flipped through another book, his tongue between his teeth. "Yours is very unusual, however. I don't see it on the regular list—no, not common at all. But then, you are a very uncommon man, are you not? Let me see, you say you have no idea what could have precipitated the change?"

Severus picked up one of the books that Flitwick had discarded on his desk and looked at the cover. "Not exactly. It is the form of the Patronus itself that confuses me. There is, in fact, an… unusual situation, in which I am currently involved."

"And you think this could be the catalyst?"

He wrinkled his nose. He was absolutely positive it was the catalyst.

"Possibly," he said, shrugging and laying the book down on the desk again.

Flitwick peered at him over the top of his spectacles. "It might, in fact, be helpful to know the nature of the situation."

Of course it would. He sighed, touching his fingertips to the scar on his neck and rubbing it unhappily. "It is a very… delicate matter."

"My dear Severus, I assure you that any secret you have is completely safe with me, as it always has been."

Frowning, he ended the charm. The seal, which had for the last few minutes been nuzzling his knee affectionately, vanished. A moment later, he almost regretted it. It left him with nothing to look at while he avoided meeting Flitwick's eyes.

"_Coniugium Mentium Verarum_."

Flitwick, for the first time that Severus could ever recall, appeared to be at a loss for words.

"Well," he said, after several very tense minutes had passed, "as I said, you are certainly an… uncommon man. Well, I'm dashed! That would certainly do it. And you're quite positive it is the, er,_ Coniugium_? More commonly referred to as _Matrimonium Verus--_"

"Yes."

"Good gracious, Severus. I am--I'm dashed. I had absolutely no idea. How long has this been going on?"

"Some time," said Severus stiffly, unhappily aware that the trend of Flitwick's questions would very quickly make it possible for him to guess the truth of the matter if Severus didn't consider his answers carefully.

"Is the other party—er, forgive me for asking, but I know you've no family and I'm afraid staff gossip hasn't covered much in the way of your, er, preferences."

"It is a gir—a woman," he said, amending the statement at the last moment. She _wasn't_ a girl, after all, and even if she were, it wouldn't be wise to tell Flitwick that. It made things sound even worse than they really were.

"Naturally, naturally. I had to ask, you know, just in case. Don't know many men who would inspire a Patronus that took the form of something quite so, er, _fluffy_, but I'm sure there are a few out there."

"Quite," growled Severus repressively.

"Of course, one doesn't want to pry, so I won't ask who it is. If you feel a desire to tell me, of course, I would not say no. However, as I say, it is not my business and I doubt it will be relevant to the discussion. Let it not be said that Filius Flitwick poked his nose in where it was not wanted! Where was I? Ah! Yes! Now, of course, the_ Coniugium_ would explain it completely. I'm only rather surprised that if, as you say, the enchantment has been ongoing for quite some time—one would think that the Patronus might have changed to reflect the lady much sooner."

He scowled. "Dispel any romantic notions from your head immediately, Filius. We were not even friends before the enchantment occurred. It was an… anomaly."

"Oh, I _say_!" cried Flitwick, sounding more delighted than ever, "this _is_ an interesting case. I've never heard of such a thing. That would certainly explain the delay in the change. I assume you have spent some of the intervening time getting to know one another?"

_Hardly_. "In a manner of speaking."

"Well, well, well, let me see," muttered Flitwick, abruptly returning to his book, which was incredibly thick, and nearly as tall as he was. "The seal itself represents many things—protection, creativity, longing, dilemma… and love, of course."

"Love?" Severus repeated before he could stop himself. "I beg your pardon?

"Well naturally," said Flitwick, looking up in surprise. "My dear fellow, your Patronus has changed due to your soul-deep connection to a woman who must, by necessity, be your perfect equal and counterpart. Even you can hardly attempt to argue that you aren't in love with her."

"I most certainly can!" He sat down heavily, hoping that Flitwick would continue to be buried too deeply in his book to notice Severus' alarm.

"Nonsense," chortled Flitwick, turning another page. "Well—how much would you say that you draw on this lady for, shall we say, the _inspiration_ for your Patronus?"

He opened his mouth to say 'none,' but then closed it again as he recalled that moment in Azkaban. He'd been so sure that it was all over, that his soul was about to be swallowed up. The memory made him shudder. No afterlife. Never another moment with Lily, never another sudden jag of emotion or insight or energy from Hermione—he had fully expected to be doomed to an eternity of emptiness, sucked into the gullet of a creature that would trap him forever.

"I thought so," said Flitwick, who was once again peering at him over the spectacles. "Has her Patronus changed as well?"

Severus blinked. Did he even know what Hermione's Patronus _was_?

"I don't know."

"I suggest you might wish to find out. See if she returns your feelings, eh?" Flitwick chuckled merrily, closing the book and levitating it back to the bookshelf, as it was too large for him to move in any other way.

"I have no interest in seeing if she returns feelings that you only imagine I have," said Severus coldly.

"Well, deny it all you like," said Flitwick, "but I know the truth. At any rate, I think that certainly explains the change. The animal itself—I suppose there simply was no animal that you previously associated with her?"

He thought fleetingly of a squirrel with an extraordinarily bushy tail. But no, that might have been something he'd have connected with Hermione-the-child. This was not Hermione-the-child. This was Hermione-the-woman, and she bore almost no resemblance at all to a squirrel, with the possible exception of the bushiness, on the rare occasions when she still wore her hair loose. Somewhere along the way she'd lost those huge teeth (when had that happened?) and become much quieter. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she no longer associated with Weasley, and Weasley's sister had taken over the management of Harry Potter. With nobody to nag, she might simply have fallen out of practice.

"There was not," he conceded, bringing himself out of his reverie.

"I thought as much. Well, in that case it's simple, really. The charm is more complicated than most—more complicated than even most specialists in Defense Against the Dark Arts are aware. Of course, anyone who is able to cast a corporeal Patronus has probably imagined at one point or another that the resultant animal displays quite a bit of intelligence, you know. It is usually written off as a projection of the caster's feelings or emotions. This is only partially true. In fact, those who have studied it believe that the charm does approach some level of what we might describe as sentience."

Severus blinked. "You mean the charm is self-aware? Is that _possible_?"

"It _approaches_ sentience, there is no evidence that it achieves it. We do know, however, that the charm senses many things about its caster and will take its form based on those things. If she is the most powerful influence on your soul and emotions, and you have no particular reason to associate her with one animal more than any other, the charm simply assumes an appropriate shape."

"So you said."

"You know," said Flitwick thoughtfully, "come to think of it, that seal looked rather familiar, didn't it? You wouldn't mind casting it again? It seemed to put me in mind of someone."

"I think not," said Severus curtly, standing up. "Thank you very much for the information. I suppose that there is not… another possible explanation?"

Flitwick settled himself back in his chair, grinning cheerfully. "None whatsoever," he said. "Glad I could be of assistance. And let me offer you my congratulations, Severus. It is high time you found someone to settle down with."

"You lead a rich fantasy life, Filius," growled Severus as he closed the door.

0 0 0

"I need to talk to you," said Ron at dinner, when the girl sitting between them (a friend of Romilda Vane's) got up to say something to a friend at the Hufflepuff table. He spoke in such a low undertone that it took Hermione a few moments to decipher what she'd heard.

"About what?" she murmured into her soup spoon, glancing for some reason at Professor Snape and hoping that he couldn't tell she and Ron were speaking. The way he'd reacted to Neville—well, she didn't much fancy being yelled at again, and if he thought _Neville_ was degrading, she didn't think he'd be very fondly inclined towards Ron at the moment.

Not that it was any of his bloody business.

"Things," said Ron vaguely and making some sort of incomprehensible gesture with his hands.

"'Things'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I need to talk to you. Alone. Please, Hermione. I know you hate me, and I know I'm an ass, and I know we aren't friends anymore, just please talk to me, okay?"

She touched the handle of her wand where it nestled into her sleeve as if it were a talisman against evil. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

Ron had apparently seen the gesture, and he looked hurt. "Hermione, I know we've had some difficulties, but you don't actually believe I'd attack you, do you?"

"No," she admitted. "But I don't like being alone with _anyone_ lately."

"We could go find an empty classroom and get Harry or someone to stand guard outside. You could even cast _Muffliato_—"

"No," she said tersely, "I couldn't."

"Oh, right. I forgot. Well, I'll cast it then. That isn't the point."

"Lovely that _you_ can forget, Ron," she snapped, forgetting to be quiet this time. Romilda Vane and Lavender Brown, who had been deep in some very giggly conversation, both stopped and stared at her suspiciously. Ron eyed them, his face going a bit red.

"Sorry about them," he said uncomfortably. "Romilda's really a good kid. Brilliant at Defense, you know. That's how she got into our class."

"Yes," sneered Hermione, "I'm sure she is a good _kid_."

"Oh come off it, Hermione, she's not that young."

She sniffed haughtily. "My opinion hardly matters anyway, Ronald."

"Fine. Will you talk with me or not?"

She looked down at her onion soup, which was hot and fragrant and reminded her strongly of Mrs. Weasley's. "If Harry's willing to stand outside the door."

"Thanks, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. A moment later, Romilda's friend returned and Hermione resolutely removed all thought of Ron from her mind. She was getting better at that, and the knowledge rather pleased her.

0 0 0

"_Severus Snape_," hissed Poppy furiously as she let him into her office, "you had just better have an explanation for what happened to Hermione Granger today."

Severus, who had spent the seven-minute walk from the dungeons to the Hospital Wing rehearsing this conversation in his head, stopped and looked at her blankly, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

"What about her?"

"She passed out in her own Common Room, if you please, woke up here, where she insisted that she'd heard you say her name, and recovered fully only upon the administration of chocolate. Well, naturally I was baffled, until I attempted to contact you to consult on the matter and discovered that you weren't here!" She paused and gave him a furious glare as she jabbed her wand viciously at her tea kettle, which immediately emitted a loud shriek.

"You can only imagine my surprise," she continued, with the air of a woman who is fighting a losing battle with a very bad temper, "when the House-Elf I sent to fetch you returned and informed me that you were gone to _Azkaban_ of all places. Azkaban, Severus! And not so much as a warning to me? The girl succumbed to a Dementor attack when there was not a Dementor to be found for miles!"

"That's impossible," said Severus slowly, but with a sinking feeling that it most certainly was not impossible.

"Oh is it?" snapped Poppy, who had finished making the tea and was now thrusting a cup of it irritably at him. "Sit down and explain yourself. _Now_."

Severus sat.

Poppy Pomfrey had been the matron of Hogwarts since several years before Severus first began attending the school. Aware of his unhappy family situation and of his isolation amongst his fellow students, she had taken it upon herself very early on in his life to play the role of surrogate mother. His father had never let him home for holidays apart from summers, when he had no choice. As far as he knew, his mother had never argued the point, although there had been so many arguments about other things over the years.

It had taken him a very long time to address Poppy by her first name when he'd returned as a teacher, and she had never really given up her role in his personal life. It was always Poppy who cared for him when he was ill, always Poppy who discovered his deepest secrets, lectured him soundly over them, and then comforted him when they weighed him down.

If Albus Dumbledore had become the replacement for the father who had never wanted to love him, Poppy had been the replacement for the mother who had never been allowed to.

Poppy, too, was the confidant for his most private and most tortured secrets. He had never given her details about Lily, but he suspected that she even knew about that long before she admitted to the knowledge, although he'd kept that one secret only to himself for so many years.

He had not come to find her because of anything to do with Hermione's incident in the Hospital Wing, which he had only learned of in that moment. At least, in his mind when he'd decided to see her it hadn't had anything to do with that. Now, of course, it actually had everything to do with it.

Because he'd come to her for someone to talk to, for someone to confide in. He'd come to her for a bit of motherly comfort and reassurance.

And now she was spilling hot tea all over his trousers with the vehemence of a woman whose offer of tea will-not-be-politely-declined-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you-young-man.

"Well?" she snapped.

"I went to Azkaban," he said, aware as the words left his mouth that they sounded absolutely idiotic.

"Oh,_did_ you?" she said, feigning surprise. "I hadn't gathered that."

He shrugged, staring into his tea and feeling that he was not coming across much better than he had during his most sullen teenage years. "There were Dementors."

"Do tell," said Poppy dryly.

"I was with Andrew Atwood. He's just as incompetent as he ever was. I couldn't cast a Patronus, and neither could he."

He set up cup down on the tea table angrily. "And I don't want any tea. Damn it, Poppy, I cannot simply cease living my life because she_ might_ be affected by things that I do! How was I to know that Dementors would affect her?"

"Neither of you could cast a Patronus successfully?" She looked at him, her anger melting away suddenly into concern. "Did you lose consciousness?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly, "I didn't."

"But that doesn't make sense," she said slowly. "One would think that they could hardly affect her worse than they do you, if you're the only one actually being exposed."

"Didn't I just tell you I don't know?" he snarled, dangerously close to shouting. "Poppy, I—_don't—know_." He was breathing hard, awash with guilt and anger and, if he were perfectly honest with himself, abject terror. This was territory so uncharted that there wasn't even a blank space left on the map for it.

"Finish your story," she said, watching him closely.

He turned away from her, composing himself before he spoke again.

"I was, in the end, able to perform the charm. And—" his voice failed. He swallowed convulsively, reaching up to rub his throat in some vague hope that she might assume it was some lingering effect of his injury.

"And?" she prompted, her brow furrowed.

"It changed," he muttered.

Her eyes widened. "To what?"

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he shouted. He was beginning to feel very tired of casting the charm, but it was so much easier than explaining. He couldn't imagine attempting to explain to Poppy without much embarrassment. Better to simply get it over with.

The seal, after a few merry somersaults, began, as it had in Flitwick's office, to nose around curiously, poking its head into everything. He watched it, remembering all that Flitwick had said about the near-sentience of the charm. How much of it was a real magical creature of some type exhibiting real creativity, and how much was simply his own projection of (he had to admit it) Hermione?

Poppy, too, was watching it, her mouth open.

"It even _looks_ like her," she finally said.

"That has not escaped me."

She stopped watching the Patronus and looked at him. "You didn't come up here to discuss Miss Granger at all, did you?"

"Not in that context."

"I'm sorry. I assumed you knew."

"I know now."

"But what does it mean?"

He stared at it morosely, wondering how it could even exist, given the thoughts going through his mind at the moment. "Flitwick says it means I'm in love with her."

"Filius knows?"

He jerked his shoulders in an unhappy shrug. "He doesn't know that it's Hermione."

She raised her eyebrows at his use of her first name, but she let it pass. It was a merciful gesture on her part and he inclined his head gratefully. With a wave of his wand, he once more removed his Patronus from sight, glad to be rid of it. She looked at the spot where it had been a moment before and then turned back to him, scrutinizing his face carefully.

"Is it true?"

From anyone else, that question would have warranted a stormy, robe-billowing exit. From Poppy, however, it was exactly what he had been hoping for and he welcomed it with relief. She could ask those sorts of questions. She could look at him and not merely pity him for being Severus Snape.

"I don't know," he admitted despondently.

"Which is as good as saying it is," she replied.

He merely groaned and closed his eyes, hanging his head so that his hair would obscure his face. "I am not in love with her."

"I see."

"Don't."

"Don't what, Severus?"

"Don't use that pitying, disapproving tone. It would be impossible for you to disapprove more strenuously than I do."

"Whether I approve or disapprove is hardly material, Severus. She leaves school in a few months. She's of age. Once she's no longer under your authority as a student, you're free to do what you like."

"I am _not_ free to do what I like."

His eyes were still closed. From a few feet away he heard her exasperated sigh and the slight rustle of her robes as she stood up and cleared away his teacup, which he was obviously not going to touch again.

"Why not?"

"Because," he growled, "what I would _like_ is for Hermione Granger to leave Hogwarts and my life and never disturb me with her presence again."

"Oh Severus," she said, sighing again, "I do feel so sorry for you."

She seemed as aware as he was that she was quite possibly the only person living who could get away with saying such a thing. But, in his secret soul, he had to admit that he had come to her for this. He started to say something, but he didn't know what it was he'd been intending to say, and so he stopped. There was no point in running at the mouth when there was clearly nothing that _could_ be said.

"My poor boy," she murmured, and he felt warm arms going around him and stroking the back of his head. "How hard this must be for you."

He allowed himself for just a moment the luxury of allowing her to hug him before he drew away stiffly. She took the hint, knew she'd be allowed to offer no more comfort, and took her seat again, both of them pretending quite convincingly that it had never happened at all.

"You'll have to tell Minerva," she said gently.

"There is nothing to tell."

"Severus, you must face facts. If your Patronus has changed—"

"It is immaterial! A mistake, Poppy!"

From the look she gave him, however, he knew that she believed that protest no more than he did. He stood up, resisting the urge to kick her very sedentary and incredible ancient kneazle, which had slept in the same corner of this office at least since Severus was eleven years old.

"Don't tell her, then," she said simply, "but if it progresses any further, Severus—do you understand me? If you see the slightest inkling that she… reciprocates…"

"Nobody could wish to discourage that more than I do myself, Poppy," he muttered.

She gave him another hug, tucking a neatly wrapped packet of sweets into his pocket, exactly as she'd done when he was a boy. Then she took his hand, patted it gently, and opened her office door.

"All will be well," she said with a maternal smile that was simultaneously irritating and comforting. "Now get you gone, before your need to storm out and reassert your manliness and independence rears its ugly head."

He scowled at her as he went.

0 0 0

The fact that Harry was standing guard outside the door did very little to reconcile Hermione to the fact that she was alone with Ron for the first time since their fight in Grimmauld Place. She trusted him not to hurt her, it was true, and even if she didn't, Harry was standing outside, just waiting to run in and play the hero once again. She just didn't like being alone with him anymore. He reminded her of Draco, and of Damien Wilkes, and of her mum and dad. Being with Ron meant being with every other unhappy memory.

They were in an old, disused classroom. Nearly a week had passed since he'd asked her to talk, but it had taken that entire week to organize and arrange things to her satisfaction. In the meantime she'd gone on studying, keeping her head and her hand down in classes, and generally avoiding everyone except for Harry, Ginny, and Luna. Neville still hung about, but something had changed between them, as she'd expected it to, and the familiar ease and frankness that had marked their friendship before seemed to be gone.

Professor Snape had changed, too. She had anticipated that. She hadn't anticipated, however, how hurt she would feel because of his sudden coldness. Of all the people in her world at the moment, he was the only one who hadn't treated her differently after she'd lost her magic. For him to change now seemed cruel.

Ron had taken a seat at a desk and was watching her morosely.

"What is it?" she asked irritably, not sitting down.

"I have a confession to make."

"Oh, how lovely. Another one? Really? Honestly, Ron, what makes you think I want to hear it?"

"It's about you."

She gave him a quelling look. "I hadn't a clue."

"I've already groveled enough, Hermione, don't you think maybe you can stop rubbing it in soon?"

"Fine," she snapped. "What's your confession?"

"I overheard something," he said, his face going red.

She crossed her arms, trying to hide her fear of whatever it was he might be about to tell her. "And?"

"Well, I didn't mean to. Ginny was talking to Harry about it, they didn't know I was there—"

She looked down at him, frozen in place, her dread increasing. The only thing Harry and Ginny could have been discussing was not something she wanted Ron to know about at all.

"I should have known," he admitted miserably. "I should have given you a chance to explain. I thought that if anything like _that_ had happened, that you would have told me."

She pressed her lips tightly together, unwilling to try her voice.

He looked down at his hands forlornly. "I don't understand why you didn't tell me. I'm not—I'm not trying to blame you. I just don't understand how you could tell _Snape_, even, and not tell me."

"If you'd actually paid some attention," she said, her voice trembling with barely controlled emotion, "you'd know I only told him after—after Australia."

"I know," he said slowly, raising his head. His hair had grown very long, and it fell around his face much as Professor Snape's did, except that it was silky and red instead of lank and black. She didn't like it much. He tossed his head to move his hair out of his eyes, and she liked that less.

"And that's what got me thinking," he added a moment later, when she didn't respond. "You wouldn't tell us what happened. Well, I guess that makes sense. You wouldn't tell us who it was, and you wouldn't tell Gin either. But she said that you said that Snape did something about it."

"Professor Snape," she murmured from force of habit.

He shrugged. "Professor Snape, then. It wasn't hard to guess after that, was it? It happened at the end of fifth year, nobody ever heard about until Christmas, and then—"

"Then what?" she interrupted sharply, trying to quell her horrible feeling that he was about to say something she very much didn't want him to say.

"It was Malfoy," he said in a soft, dangerous voice, and she saw now that his hands were clenched tightly and his eyes were very cold. "_Malfoy_. Merlin, Hermione. I'm sorry. I know I'm an ass, and I know I have no right anymore to even say this, but I swear to you—if I see him, if I ever see him, I'll kill him."

He said it with such cold, intense conviction that it didn't occur to Hermione to doubt his word. She simply stared at him. For some reason in all the scenarios she'd run through in her mind, this one hadn't presented itself.

"Malfoy?" she repeated, faltering slightly. "What makes you say that?"

"Because everybody else it could have been is either in Azkaban, dead, or still here at Hogwarts and still in possession of their skin."

"Ginny and Harry should have been more careful," she said softly.

"_I_ should have been more careful, Hermione. I should have protected you. I should have known he'd try to go after you. And I mean what I said. I'll kill him."

She shrugged, unsure of what to say.

He sighed, and rubbed his face slowly with his hands. "I'm sorry for ruining everything Hermione, and I'm sorry for putting you through this. I just wanted you to know that I knew, and that I—I wish that I'd acted in a way that would have made you feel like you could trust me with it."

0 0 0

"Longbottom," said Severus very softly. The boy looked at him with his huge sheep's eyes and flinched. Their last few lessons had been brutal. Severus had decided it was time to really take him in hand and give him a taste of real life Defense. After all that he'd made it through during the previous year and all that he'd learned since, Severus felt no guilt at all in leaving lecturing behind altogether and pursuing much more practical methods for Neville Longbottom's education.

He took careful aim at the boy's gangly legs and thought_ Tarantallegra_, a blast of light exploding from his wand before Neville had even shut the door all the way.

He stumbled aside, his own wand already in his hand and pointed at Severus' head. "_Stupefy_!" he roared, dodging behind a desk as soon as the bolt of red light was flying towards Severus.

Severus' shield charm was up with long seconds to spare, and he nonverbally cast a jelly-fingers jinx, but Neville had retained his position behind the desk and made an annoyingly poor target. Nor did he immediately retaliate, satisfied for the moment to put into action Severus' lessons about using non-magical objects in magical battles.

His lip curled. Time to remind the boy of the flaws inherent in that particular approach.

His silent Reductor curse blasted the desk into thousands of tiny pieces and sent Neville reeling backwards. He could barely erect his own shield charm before Severus' spells were upon him, raining down like multicolored fire on the shield, which glowed and shimmered faintly under their assault. It was already beginning to fail.

At the last possible moment before the shield dissipated, Neville scrambled to his feet. "_Expelliarmus_!" he shouted.

"I think not," sneered Severus. "And keep your mouth shut when you duel, if you intend to be taken seriously as an adult wizard." He punctuated the remark by casting the same jinx nonverbally, barely even moving his wand. It caught Neville shamefully off-guard and his wand flew from his hand and into Severus', who smiled coldly and advanced on him.

"You see? I have tried again and again, boy, to impress upon you the importance of keeping your mouth and your mind shut when you do battle. If your enemy can _hear_ your spells, he can _counter_ your spells, especially if he has, either because of magical or natural talent, particularly heightened or honed reflexes."

Neville had taken refuge behind another desk. Severus kept his wand trained on that desk, his voice mocking. "In _my_ case," he said, "seven and a half years of teaching you have left me with reflexes that I can only describe, in all humility, as superhuman."

He saw, for a moment, Neville's hand, flat on the floor as he shifted his weight—Neville's pasty, dirty, _unworthy_ hand, that had dared to touch Hermione as if it had a right to do so. Seized with an incomprehensible rage, he sent a jelly-fingers jinx at it so quickly that it hit just before the boy pulled his hand away.

It wasn't a direct hit, and would only affect one of the hands, but one was better than none.

"You can't linger there forever, Longbottom," he jeered. "You're never going to win a duel if all you do is hide behind a desk. Still, hiding is what you do best, isn't it? That is what your many months in the Room of Requirement seem to indicate, at least."

For a moment, there was no response. Then, with a roar, Neville lifted the desk with his entire weight, hurling it at Severus. It was a heavy desk, and without magic it must have been incredibly hard to lift indeed, but he managed it somehow. Severus waved his wand at the desk, transfiguring it in mid-air into a vat of icy water and sending it back to dump itself over Neville's head.

"A better attempt, but still pathetic," he snarled. "You ought to have moved the moment that you were on your feet, and made it more difficult for me to retaliate."

"Because I'm s-so afraid of a little water," muttered Neville rebelliously through blue lips.

"Water is not the point, Longbottom. The point is that you are without your wand, and you are now both very cold and very wet. There is nothing you can do about it. My advantage is increased because you cannot dry yourself or warm yourself effectively and quickly without magic, and therefore will now be distracted."

"_Accio_ wand!" shouted Neville. In Severus' hand, the wand gave a feeble twitch.

He laughed unkindly. "Oh, _hardly_. It would take a great deal more power than you have to achieve that."

"I know what this is about!" shouted Neville through chattering teeth as he dodged the hexes that Severus was now once again throwing at him almost without pause. Some of the spells ricocheted off walls and into desks, punctuating their duel with small, thudding explosions.

"What is 'this', boy, and what is it all about?" he asked with a sneer as his Impediment jinx hit home, and Neville fell unceremoniously to the floor.

"These lessons," said Neville, whose lip was now oozing blood. He snatched up a heavy chunk of broken desk and hurled it at Severus' head, using the distraction to charge forward and attempt to tackle him.

The attempt failed in its main object, but it did throw Severus off-balance, and he stumbled backwards and fell across an overturned chair, landing on the floor. In a heartbeat, Neville was on him, wrestling him for possession of the wands.

"These lessons," grunted Severus as Neville's knee knocked the wind out of him, "are for—" he moved his arm, jabbing the point of his wand into Neville's wrist "—your own _good_, boy."

The Stinging Hex made Neville's wrist swell up immediately, but he didn't stop fighting for control of the wands.

"It's about _Hermione_," continued Neville with a snarl, aiming a punch at the side of Severus' head. "I heard what you said to her."

He dodged the punch and grabbed Neville's swollen wrist, twisting it until it was nearly at the breaking point. With another jab of his wand, which he now had room to maneuver, he sent Neville flying into the air. A moment afterwards, he stood above him, his wand pointed directly at the boy's throat.

"You lose," he said frostily. "Now explain yourself."

Neville wiped a smear of blood from his chin with the back of his arm, looking up at Severus. "You're angry with me for kissing her. I heard you yelling at her."

"Ten points from Gryffindor for eavesdropping, Longbottom, another ten for sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong, and ten more for having the insolence to suggest that I give a damn about what you and that wretched girl get up to as long as you don't do it in the hallways of this school."

"Fine, sir," said Neville glumly. "Can I have my wand back, please?"

Severus tossed it to him, trying to ignore the impulse to keep it and use it to throttle the boy with his own robes instead.

"You will clean up this mess. You will repair the desks. And you will come to your next lesson better-prepared to defend yourself. And," he added over his shoulder before he left the room, "five more points from Gryffindor for being stupid enough to remind me of that incident in the first place."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Loved writing Flitwick and Snape. Yay! 

Just started a new job with many more hours than I was previously working, so update rate is going to slow down, but no worries. I will not be stopping this story before it's done.

Thank-you to readers and reviewers, and to those who have cheered me on in various ways as I worked on getting this chapter done while attempting to also deal with all the ways in which real life is currently kicking my butt.


	50. Just A Kiss

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 50: Just A Kiss**

* * *

Professor Severus Snape wandered through the rows of shelves that made up the library of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The library was, in fact, made up of rooms upon rooms upon rooms, although the vast majority of students never made it past the main hall. Most of the books in the back rooms were so specific, old, or obscure that no student would ever have need of them. 

He turned a corner and froze. Hermione Granger stood only a few feet away from him, her nose buried in an old, dusty tome with no title on its cover. His muscles tensed as if ready to flee, but he did not move. She seemed to hear him, and she raised her head, her eyes meeting his. As soon as she saw him, her face lit up with a radiant smile and she gripped her book more tightly.

"Miss Granger," said Snape, in a strained voice.

"Professor," she answered, the smile fading from her face to be replaced with a look of mingled hope and uncertainty.

There was an awkward pause, in which she looked back down at her book (now closed) and he appeared to search for something to say.

"You are reading," he said in a tone that attempted to be conversational.

"Yes! It's so incredibly interesting—"

"Hermione," he interrupted, taking a step forward, "I don't care what you're reading."

"Oh," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. "Oh, of course you don't, I'm sorry, sir. Am I—am I not supposed to be back here?"

He took another step forward. He was looming over her now, so close that she had to tilt her head up to see him.

"No," he murmured, "you belong here."

Then he gathered her abruptly into his arms and bent over her, his lank, heavy hair falling around them in thick waves, one hand moving up to caress the line of her jaw.

He kissed her.

For a long moment after their lips touched, neither of them moved. They both seemed to have been turned to stone. Then she made a subtle movement towards him and the muscles in his arms flexed, nearly lifting her off the ground with the force of his embrace. He tilted his head and, their moment of hesitancy past, kissed her forcefully and long.

She made a soft moaning noise against his lips and his arms convulsed and wrapped still more tightly around her, until she was supported only by him, wrapped completely in the black folds of his cloak.

0 0 0

Hermione woke up, her heart pounding with the same terrified rhythm that her nightmares had so familiarized her with. She lay very still, forcing herself to take in the reality of her surroundings. The curtains of her bed were drawn, enclosing her in darkness. On opposite sides of the room, she could hear Lavender and Parvati breathing evenly. She felt for her wand, secure under her pillow, a talisman against evil even when useless in her hand.

It had been two and a half months since she'd discovered the enchantment, and she'd grown to recognize the outside influences that sometimes touched many of her dreams. Garbled visions of Voldemort had crept into her own nightmares, along with snatches of Professor Dumbledore falling to his death, and a woman who she guessed was Harry's mother. Given that bits of Professor Snape's dreams were obviously making their way into her mind at night, she could only assume that he saw portions of her dreams as well.

It was this that terrified her at the moment.

The dream had been incredibly clear. She had no doubts at all that it was_her_ dream. The only question was whether he'd seen it too.

Overcome with mortification at the thought, she flipped onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. If he had seen it—well, the thought was too terrible to even consider. With a despairing little moan, she dragged the blankets over her head and tried to pretend she'd never dreamt any such thing.

0 0 0

Severus jerked awake and swore loudly, a book falling from his lap with a loud thud, his heart racing as if from a nightmare.

He leaned over to pick up the book and then looked about him as he began to vaguely remember that he did not usually sleep upright in his bed. He'd fallen asleep reading in his sitting room.

Not only had he fallen asleep, he'd had a dream.

He stood up and grumpily re-shelved the book. It was one thing to succumb to a fleeting moment of possessiveness (totally unromantic; he had every right, given their connection, to care about who she associated herself with). It was another thing entirely to dream so vividly of her—to dream of _kissing_ her.

He had moved to his bedroom, but now he stopped preparing for bed, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He was not an optimistic enough man to even hope that she never saw any of his dreams. What if she had seen this one?

Severus sighed unhappily. This entered a realm of student-teacher ethics that was absurd and obscure even by the standards of the Wizarding World, where absurdity was practically nonexistent. Was it wrong to dream of kissing a student? Was it wrong in general, or only if the student happened to be attached to one's soul? He swallowed slowly.

Had she seen?

How could he possibly tell, if she had? Even she, the consummate Gryffindor, would surely not say anything about it to his face. And he could not ask. After all, what if he brought it up, and she _hadn't_ seen it? Besides, he reasoned, a kiss was just a kiss. It meant nothing. He had dreamt of countless kisses (and more) at other times, with other women, and he was certainly not in love with any of them.

Love. It was all Flitwick's fault. The dream was merely a result of the power of suggestion. He had fallen asleep unprepared, and hadn't performed his usual Occlumentic rituals before drifting off. He'd been thinking and worrying about his Patronus, and about Flitwick, and about Hermione—only natural to have such a dream, in the face of all that.

Only natural to have such a random, meaningless, forgettable dream.

0 0 0

Hermione was partnered with Harry in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall had decided to use their private lessons to work only on human transfiguration, and so had sent him back to his regular classes as well to ensure that his grip on the rudiments remained strong.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asked, under cover of the gravelly sound of a roomful of ancient phonographs. Each of them stood in front of their phonographs (Harry's gold, Hermione's black, trimmed in emerald green), attempting to transfigure them into birds. Harry's had sprouted two rather pathetic-looking, featherless wings, but what ought to have been its beak was still just a large, curved horn. Hermione wasn't impressed.

"No," she said impatiently, grabbing his wrist to stop him from trying again, and demonstrating the proper wand movement. "It's like_ this_."

Harry tried it. The phonograph re-shaped itself into a large bird, albeit one whose song still had a peculiarly scratchy quality to it. Her own wand had merely produced some sparks and an offended-sounding squawk from her phonograph.

"Ten points to Gryffindor for each of you," said Professor McGonagall from across the room, giving them each an approving nod. Hermione scowled.

"I don't like being awarded points out of charity," she muttered. "And honestly, she's giving you Animagus lessons in your private sessions, you'd think that you'd be able to transfigure a phonograph."

"It's all the moving parts that make it so hard. You didn't answer me," said Harry, stroking his bird along its back and watching it prod Hermione's phonograph in a hopeful, forlorn sort of way with its beak.

"Yes," she said, annoyed, "that's what Professor McGonagall said. That's the whole point of the exercise, Harry. And she's actually going to let you try and transfigure _yourself_? Don't you think that you have moving parts? And you didn't need to know."

"Who says I didn't need to?" he retorted grumpily, prodding his bird with the tip of his wand. It stared at him balefully out of the corner of its eye and made a grab for the wand with its beak.

"Let's see, Harry," she said irritably. "We'd just sent a group of Death Eaters to Azkaban, Voldemort was trying to kill you, Sirius had just died—I guess I thought you already had quite enough to be getting on with."

Harry poked his bird again, looking annoyed. "Nice to know you trusted me so much."

She sighed, attempting once more to transfigure her phonograph, and failing. "It had nothing to do with trust, Harry. I just didn't want to burden you with something you couldn't change. And then when everything happened during sixth year, it just never seemed the right time, and after a while, I'd kept it a secret for so long, I started to feel as if I missed my chance to tell you."

Harry blinked. "That makes no sense."

She ignored that and flipped through a few pages of their Transfiguration textbook, watching the animated drawing of the proper wand movements once more time, just in case she really _was_ able to do it and was just getting it wrong. "So now that you do know, what difference does it make?"

He shrugged, watching her make yet another attempt at transfiguring her phonograph. "None, I guess. I just wish I'd known."

"You couldn't have done anything, Harry," she said.

He looked at her unhappily. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Hermione threw her wand down on the table in exasperation, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "_Yes_, it's supposed to make you feel better."

"I thought," said Harry, "that we were good enough friends—that you trusted me."

"That has nothing to do with it. I just… didn't want to think about it more than I already was."

"And all those times you tried to distract me from watching him during sixth year. I _knew_ he was up to something. I _knew _it. Why did you do that?" he continued, staring moodily at her still untransfigured phonograph. His bird was now warbling at it with an expression that struck Hermione as being decidedly lovelorn.

She didn't answer his question. There wasn't really an answer to give.

"What would you have done about it, anyway? Killed him? Be realistic, Harry."

"Killing would be too good for him," said Harry darkly. "But someone could have told Dumbledore, someone could have done something to get rid of him."

"Only… I don't think he would have done, Harry," she said softly, voicing a terrible thought that had been plaguing her for months. "Professor Snape made the Unbreakable Vow. If Dumbledore had got rid of Malfoy—"

"Things would still have happened the same way! Snape killed Dumbledore!" he protested in a furious whisper. "Getting Malfoy out of the picture wouldn't have changed that."

"I know," she said stiffly. How could she forget what Professor Snape had done, when she saw it so often in her dreams? "But he—he wanted to give Malfoy a chance, didn't he? He hoped Malfoy would change. You're the one who told me that."

"You're more important than Malfoy."

"To you, maybe." She picked her wand back up, pointing it halfheartedly at her phonograph but not attempting to try the proper wand movement again. "Not to Dumbledore."

"I didn't notice him leaving Malfoy anything in his will" muttered Harry.

Hermione, feeling unusually cynical, fed Harry's bird a bit of millet, distracting it momentarily from its doomed courtship of her phonograph. "You and I both know that he only left me that book because of you. It had nothing to do with me."

"But it's automatic expulsion! He couldn't have just let it go."

"Oh come off it, Harry. For all I know, he even knew about what happened and chose to ignore it. It doesn't matter, anyway. Dumbledore's dead. I'm not interested in talking about what he _might_ have done if I hadn't been stupid."

"I didn't say you were stupid."

"You might as well have."

"I just wish that I could do something to help!"

"Well, you can't," she snapped, "so stop trying." The bell rang and she swept her things into her bag and ran out, leaving him to follow behind.

0 0 0

Severus watched her covertly across the Great Hall. She was looking in his direction no more than she usually did, as far as he could tell, but he wasn't able to look every moment. Was she looking when he was not?

He had no idea what he would say if she had seen the dream. Should he make an excuse of some sort? Pretend that it hadn't happened? Indicate, perhaps, that it was her dream only, and had nothing to do with him, beyond an unfortunate choice of subject matter?

Now that he came to notice her, it did not escape him that she had become rather pretty. Her teeth were still a bit too large for his taste, her hair too wild, and her face too thin. But her bone structure was unimpeachable. Her skin was flawless, except for the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her hands were small and delicate, and she gestured gracefully as she talked with her friends.

Severus was entranced.

Then she finally looked directly at him. He allowed himself to have a glimpse before he turned away. Her eyes were huge and curious, and from that distance, he could almost imagine that they were as black as his own.

It was no use pretending otherwise. He knew it in that moment. His Patronus was _her_—unmistakably, obviously her. He would have to take care not to let it be seen for any length of time by someone who might recognize it, which meant finding a new method of communication with Minerva.

But what did it mean? Only that their link was, in spite of his best efforts, becoming stronger? Or was it more?

He watched as she turned away again, laughing at something that Ginny Weasley said. Love was not something he was willing to confess to, especially not love for a student. But affection? Perhaps he might admit to that. Friendship? Yes, he supposed that, in the end, there would be no getting away from it. A friendship of sorts seemed to be unavoidable.

He picked uninterestedly at his meal, lowering his head to mask his expression behind his hair as he mulled over the matter. It still remained to decide how to act. Ought he to give in? It seemed almost unthinkable to openly foster such a friendship, even if he admitted that it was an inevitability. Better to continue biding his time, at least until the end of the school year.

Much would be influenced, he suddenly realized, by discovering whether or not she had seen any portion of the dream, which meant that he was all but _required_ to find out somehow. If she had seen it, and he suddenly became friendlier towards her, he feared that it might create a very wrong impression in her mind as to his intentions.

Enough for him to have assumed so much of Potter's role as her protector and co-conspirator in ridiculous Gryffindor stunts that involved traveling halfway across the world. It would be far worse for him to appear, at least by pureblood standards, to be taking a deeper interest in her, and consciously attempting to build a friendship between them would certainly be seen that way in pureblood circles.

Not that he expected her to abide by, or even be familiar with, those standards—but she had pureblood friends, and they would notice, even if she didn't. He had a nagging fear that Longbottom already harbored suspicions of that sort, and it would be in keeping with the way that Longbottom had plagued him in the past if he were to mention such a suspicion to Hermione.

0 0 0

Ginny reached across the table for a pumpkin pasty, thoughtfully tapping her bottom lip with the point of her quill. "Hermione, why does Snape keep looking at you during meals? Is he trying to scare you or something?"

Hermione, who had done a fair amount of anxious and covert looking across the Hall herself, blushed and shrugged in a manner that she hoped was nonchalant. "He's probably just trying to make sure that I'm doing all right, after all that's happened."

"That doesn't sound like him."

She shrugged again, opening another book and thumbing through it so she could avoid looking at any of her companions. She had opted, for reasons she preferred not to share with her friends, to leave the library early and study in the Common Room instead. Nearly everyone else had gone to Hogsmeade, but Hermione hadn't felt like going, and her friends had decided to stay behind with her, in spite of her protests.

"I think maybe it's not like the old Snape," said Harry grudgingly, "but it's different now. He gives points to Gryffindor and stuff too, and he's been pretty nice to me in Defense."

Ginny tossed the wrapper of her pumpkin pasty into the fire. "True, but actually being concerned about a student? A _Gryffindor_ student?"

"I think he feels bad because Malfoy was his godson," said Ron. He and Hermione still hadn't entirely patched their friendship up, but she'd done what she felt was the right thing and invited him to join their study group, as his parents had revoked his permission to go to Hogsmeade.

"He was?" said Harry, sounding disgusted.

Ron, his mouth half-full of pumpkin pasty himself, nodded knowingly. "Oh yeah. They kept it hush-hush around school, mostly, because of propriety and things, but dad told me about it ages ago. Anyway, he disowned him just after Christmas."

Harry stopped craning his neck to see Hermione's parchment. "He did? How d'you know that?"

"Dad again." Ron gave Hermione a shrewd look, but she kept her eyes steadfastly on her parchment.

"You don't look very surprised," commented Ginny, who had apparently noticed the look that Ron gave her.

She tensed for a moment, then gave in. No point in trying to lie. She wasn't very good at it, and she had bigger lies to save her energy for. "I already knew."

"You_ knew_?"

"Yes, Harry. He told me after Draco was expelled."

"Oh, well that's all right then. Everything makes perfect sense, doesn't it?" said Harry sarcastically. "Merlin, Hermione, doesn't it even strike you as strange?"

She set her quill down carefully and then looked at Harry, one eyebrow raised. "Doesn't _what_ strike me as strange, exactly?"

"Well," said Harry, faltering slightly, "Snape."

"No stranger than he's ever been before. Forget about it, Harry, if it doesn't bother me, then it shouldn't bother you. It's about time you got over your habit of assuming he's always doing something wrong. We've got homework to finish."

Harry raised his hands defensively. "I never said he did anything wrong! I just said it was strange."

"Snape's been acting strange all year," said Ron, with a somewhat anxious look in her direction. "Hermione and I fought about it months ago."

Ginny smirked. "Maybe you were right, Ron. I bet he fancies her."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Hermione, grabbing Harry's Charms essay and beginning to check it over for errors. Her cheeks were starting to feel distinctly warm, and she inched closer to the fire, so as to have an excuse for blushing if anyone pointed it out.

"Snape and Hermione?" said Harry, his eyes wide. Then he grinned and nudged Ginny with his elbow. "Well, I mean, they'd be perfect for each other, wouldn't they?"

"What? What are you talking about?" asked Ron, aghast.

"Oh yeah," answered Ginny, picking up the joke. "Noses always in books, smarter than everyone else—they're even all chummy about Potions."

Hermione's cheeks were definitely burning now and she hung her head lower, her nose nearly touching the book as she checked Harry's references against it.

"They can move to Manchester and live in a house made of books," said Harry.

Ginny snickered. "Hermione, you're going to need to start wearing more black. And don't forget the children!"

"All in Slytherin, of course," said Harry promptly. He and Ginny exchanged a look, smirking at each other.

"Yeah," said Neville, speaking for the first time and looking at Hermione with a pained expression in his eyes. "Hermione and Snape, happily ever after."

"_Professor_ Snape," corrected Ginny, in a nearly flawless impersonation of Hermione, which was followed almost immediately afterwards by shrieks of laughter as she and Harry both lost their last fragment of self-control and dissolved into mirth.

"Urgh," said Ron with a shudder, "don't keep talking about it. I'm trying to eat." He held up a half-devoured pumpkin pasty, his third in the last hour, as evidence.

"There's your Charms essay finished," said Hermione abruptly, shoving it at Harry. "I'm going to go find someplace to study where there's actual _studying_ going on."

They all sobered up at once.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," said Harry, half-rising. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I just want to get my homework done," she snapped.

"I'm not supposed to let you wander off by yourself. McGonagall said you aren't supposed to be alone—"

She clutched at her wand tightly. "Everyone's in Hogsmeade, if you haven't forgotten. I'm not going to get hurt just wandering around the castle."

"If McGonagall catches you ought alone, you're not going to be the only one getting in trouble," said Harry stubbornly.

"Well maybe I'll just have _Snape_ escort me," she sneered, "As I'm sure he'd welcome the opportunity to whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Did it ever occur to any of you that I might just want to be _alone_ once in a while?"

She wasn't sure how it had happened, but she was shouting. Everyone stared at her and she shuffled uncomfortably, covering up her discomfort by snatching at her homework and stuffing it all back into her bag.

"Anyway, I guess I'll just go up to my room," she muttered, "as I can't go anywhere else by myself. Unless you think someone needs to be there to make sure I don't get ambushed by Death Eaters in the loo or molested by the vampire under my bed, Harry?"

"Er, no," said Harry, abashed.

"Fine, then. See you later, Neville, Ron."

She trudged up the stairs, not waiting for their replies, and dropped her things on the floor just inside the door. She locked the door manually and sat down by the window, staring out without really seeing what was there.

After the dream that had awakened her that morning, her friends' supposed joking hit a little too close to the mark for her comfort. Not, of course, that she was in love with Professor Snape, or that he was in love with her (far from it!)—but people had noticed something strange.

Neither of them had any interest in making the enchantment between them a matter of public record, but as a result, she was beginning to realize that the people who noticed the subtle, inevitable changes between them were going to talk. She wondered how many others would make the same guess that Neville had guessed, or make the jokes that Harry and Ginny had made.

Was being linked romantically to Professor Snape in school gossip better than letting people know that they were linked literally? She sighed, thinking of Draco and Percy and the other Death Eaters who still lingered out there. Dimly, she recalled the night they'd driven to Grimmauld Place. What had he said when he helped her out of the car? He would have carried her, but they were being watched, and he didn't want to give the wrong impression to his enemies.

He didn't want her to be a target.

Although this thought warmed her, it wasn't terribly comforting, either. No matter which way things went, she was more a target now than ever—as was he. Either someone would decide they were secret lovers (if her friends' guesses and jokes were any indication of how people would begin to think when they noticed), or the truth would come out. Either option drew far too much attention to the fact that anyone wishing to take revenge on one of them could hurt the other.

The thought actually made her laugh out loud. Would anyone seriously believe that they could exact revenge on Severus Snape by attacking Hermione Granger, or vice versa?

It seemed so strange. It was almost loverlike, that they could be used so to hurt one another, and that when finally given the chance to live an honest life after so many years of spying and skulking, he'd chosen to continue lying in order to protect her.

But to actually fall in love with him, or for him to fall in love with her as Ginny and Harry had suggested was preposterous. Dreaming about a kiss didn't mean anything, except that they were close, and that she trusted him.

And she didn't need a dream to tell her either of those things, thank you very much.

Still, she had no idea how she could possibly face him in their next Potions lesson. What if he'd seen? Not that a reasonable person would ever hold her responsible for a dream, but if anyone would be unreasonable about something like that, surely it was Professor Snape.

Resting the side of her head against the window, she touched her lips with one finger, remembering the dream. It was still real and vivid in her mind, and she wondered how close it came to what it would really be like to kiss Professor Snape.

Not that she would ever have a chance to find out.

Not that she _wanted_ to have a chance to find out. She frowned. She hadn't given much thought to the long term ramifications of their situation yet. She was pretty sure that they'd have to stay in touch after she left school, but none of the literature discussed how the enchantment worked over long distances. She knew he'd seen through her eyes during the most traumatic moments during her stay in Australia, but the only real approximation she had to a precedent was Harry and Voldemort, and she had no desire to consider the similarities in their situations.

She sighed. She needed to just stop worrying about it. No matter if he'd seen it or not, there was no way to go back in time and change it now. He'd looked at her quite a lot in the Great Hall, but perhaps that was because he'd noticed her looking at him. It didn't necessarily mean that he'd seen anything to discomfit him. After all, he hadn't seen _all_ her dreams.

It was with that thought that she attempted to comfort herself as she left the window and went to finish her homework.

0 0 0

Since early in the previous term, he had found himself looking forward to their private lessons. Hermione was quick and curious, and she still managed some degree of magical power while brewing. It was a pleasure to watch her and guide her through the more advanced intricacies of the science.

On this particular morning, however, he was not anxious to see her. Two weeks had passed since the dream—two weeks of anxiety, discomfort, and annoyance with women and Gryffindors in general, and with Hermione Granger in particular. He did not dare use Legilimency on her. He felt sure that if he did, not only would she notice, but she might very well turn it against him and search his mind instead of allowing him to search hers.

And so he was reduced to the meanest guesswork, attempting to drop subtle enough hints that she would not recognize them as hints, and to which, therefore, she never offered a satisfactory response. Even years of spying amongst the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself had not prepared Severus to attempt to learn the secrets of an eighteen-year-old Gryffindor's putative romantic dreams.

As a result, he had more or less given up, and settled on his plan of simply ignoring it altogether. Except when it might prove absolutely necessary (as in the case of his ridiculous trip to Australia), he saw no reason to acknowledge in any way that there was any sort of special or unusual bond between them. Therefore, he put great effort into behaving exactly as he always had behaved towards her, and if it bothered her, she never mentioned it.

The door opened, and his heartbeat faltered for a moment, leaving a strange sensation in his chest.

"Miss Granger," he said irritably, rubbing his chest with his palm, "you are late."

She blushed. "I'm sorry, sir. I got held up in the hallway."

Something in her tone roused his thrice-damned protective instinct towards her, and he raised his eyebrows. "Held up, Miss Granger?"

"I got into a bit of an argument, that's all." She was already pulling out Potions ingredients, her face carefully averted from him. He found himself wishing that she would look at him. It was frustrating having to pry information from her when he had a right to know what troubled her. After all, it might well begin to trouble him also, and he preferred to know what was wrong with him when he began to feel melancholy. He had enough things to be depressed about in his own life without also experiencing unaccountable waves of depression from hers.

"Before you begin your next project, you will tell me what happened," he said in a bored voice, watching the slight jerkiness in her movements that followed his words. She didn't want to tell him. It was becoming so easy for him to read her, now that he really tried.

"Ron was supposed to walk me over here and he got called back by Professor Flitwick. Someone… stopped me," she muttered, her cheeks aflame.

"You planned to have _Weasley _escort you?"

"He's—he apologized," she said lamely. "And I don't like asking Harry all the time."

Severus ground his teeth, counting to ten before he answered. "And he, not surprisingly, failed to do as he had agreed, leaving you to walk here alone."

She selected a mortar and pestle and sprinkled a handful of shredded root of asphodel into the bowl. "Yes."

"I see," he murmured softly. "And who, exactly, accosted you?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Oh yes, Miss Granger, it most certainly _does_ matter. The Headmistress has made it quite clear to all students that you are not to be harassed for things which are not under your control."

"I don't tell tales."

He scowled. "Would you prefer I simply removed the information from your mind, Miss Granger?"

She went quite pale, the pestle going still as she stopped grinding the asphodel to powder. "No, thank you," she whispered, so softly that he had to read her lips to be sure of what she said.

"Then you will tell me who is responsible for your tardiness." He looked at her curiously. She was clearly as unwilling to let him use Legilimency on her as he was to actually use it. Veritaserum might have been a choice, but no—it was forbidden to use on students, and he didn't imagine that Minerva would consider a dream to be a worthy reason for bending the rule.

Besides, he didn't really want to know. Not that badly. It was really immaterial anyway.

She was blushing again, carefully keeping her eyes averted from his. He stood up, walking towards her. She fixed her gaze on the asphodel, picking up the pestle again and resuming her grinding.

"Miss Granger," he said softly, when he had come quite close to her, "you will tell me who is responsible, or you will have the information forced from you. I will not tolerate flouting of direct orders from both the Headmistress and myself, and the student responsible will learn that.

He looked down at her hair. Her fingers, he noticed, were trembling, and he had to consciously repress his desire to seize her hand and clasp it in his to stop that tremble. A little shakiness never hurt anyone, though, and he was determined to remain aloof.

"Romilda Vane," she finally said, glancing up at him with a look of utter humiliation. "You won't tell anyone, will you, sir? I just—nothing really happened, and I'm fine."

"Thank you," he said crisply, turning his back on her before he allowed his face to show any of his fury with her classmate. "And I most certainly _will _be telling someone. The Headmistress will hear of it, as will Miss Vane. Proceed with your potion, Miss Granger, and five points for having the audacity to request that I withhold a matter of discipline from Professor McGonagall."

She nodded mutely and bit her lip. He returned to his desk to brood in vengeful silence over how many points he could legitimately remove from Romilda Vane.

0 0 0

Percy Weasley sat beside Severus in Minerva's office, eating a biscuit and looking rather pleased to be back at Hogwarts, if only for a brief visit.

"They're starting to put quite a bit more pressure on me," he said, polishing off his biscuit and folding his hands in a businesslike manner. "They don't feel I'm providing enough information about the Order, and Malfoy is becoming obsessed with Professor Snape. He's been reading through the Malfoy family library, and he's got some idea about a way to break into the school, some weakness he's hoping you don't know about."

"Break into the school? Again?" said Minerva in surprise, glancing at Severus.

"A small contingent, and they don't want to be seen, except by Professor Snape."

Severus steepled his fingers, narrowing his eyes at Percy. "And who is to be part of this… contingent?"

"I don't know for sure. Malfoy and Selwyn. Probably Walpurgis. Maybe Montgomery."

"You?"

Percy's lip twisted. "I haven't been invited, as of yet."

"And you've no idea what this supposed weakness is?"

He swallowed, running one hand through his flame-red hair. "I was hoping you knew."

Minerva shook her head, pursing her lips and glancing up at Dumbledore, who was listening intently.

"No," said Albus, answering for them all, "it seems to be a bit of a mystery. Although, I have said many times, Hogwarts has always been a source of surprise to me. I doubt even the Founders were aware of all its intricacies, at least not independently of one another."

Severus stroked the side of his neck thoughtfully with one long finger, biting down on the inside of his lower lip as he thought. "If Malfoy has truly discovered a weakness, surely it is something that we should be able to find as well. Have you any idea what books he's been reading, Weasley?"

"None. I can probably find out, though."

"Do so, as soon as you can," said Minerva immediately. "Whether they are only going after Professor Snape or not, I do not wish any of them to have admittance to the school at all." She stopped speaking and looked at Severus strangely.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Does your lip hurt, Severus?" she asked in a strange voice.

He immediately stopped biting his lip, scowling at her. "As a matter of fact, Minerva, it does. Your hapless Gryffindor protégé splashed a highly acidic potion on me this morning and some of it happened to hit my face."

It was a lie, of course, but she was no Legilimens.

"Speaking of Hermione," she said, turning her attention back to Percy, "is Malfoy still talking about her?"

"He's more interested in Professor Snape at the moment, but he is still talking about her, yes. He's got an idea that if they can get away with murdering Snape and not get caught, they'll try to go after Hermione on their way out."

Severus snorted. "Highly unlikely that they would succeed."

"Highly unlikely," agreed Percy, looking unhappy, "but not impossible. If they really can get into the castle, perhaps they really can kill you without triggering the wards, and if they can do that, nothing's to say that someone will stop them before they break into Gryffindor tower, or find her alone somewhere."

"She is never alone," said Minerva.

Severus recalled the Romilda Vane incident that morning, and his frown deepened. "_Almost_ never," he corrected, "but we cannot be always relying on the reliability of eighteen and nineteen year old escorts."

"Have you another suggestion?" asked Minerva, looking tense.

"Unfortunately not, but I suggest it is something we must begin considering immediately. Although I have—" he glanced at Percy warily "—my own methods of staying vigilant about any danger she might be in, they are sometimes… unreliable."

They were, in fact, wholly unpredictable. He could hardly command her mind to open to his the moment that something bad happened to her. But perhaps they could find some way to harness the connection, to use it consciously to communicate.

That thought was so different from the ones he'd been entertaining for so many months that it caught him by surprise. It could, he supposed, be quite an advantage to be able to communicate telepathically with someone, especially with someone as skilled and intelligent as she was, to say nothing of how easy it would become to ensure her safety.

"You and I will discuss it later, then. I don't think Percy needs to be a part of that decision, and the less he knows of specifics, the better. Is there anything else, Percy?"

"That's everything, for now."

"Keep us abreast of any new developments. Find out what Malfoy is reading. If we know where he's looking, perhaps we can find the same thing. Alert us immediately if you discover anything more."

Percy stood up, accepted a tin of biscuits from Minerva, and stepped through the Floo, spinning away to appear in the fireplace of The Burrow's kitchen.

"We will need to move your chambers," said Minerva immediately.

"I would prefer to stay in them. I will erect extra, stronger wards."

"If Malfoy really has discovered a weakness—"

"Perhaps," he interrupted, then paused for a moment of thought before he continued, "it might be best… if we allow him to breach our defenses."

"Severus!"

He shrugged. "He will bring Selwyn, Walpurgis and Montgomery to us."

"And if he kills you? If he attacks a student?"

"We will be ready for him. He will kill nobody."

"You can't guarantee that."

"I cannot, but I can tell you that it is extremely likely."

"Fine. I can't move you. Should we move her?"

"Rather than moving her, perhaps we ought to… confine her. Gryffindor tower is very safe. We can erect extra wards. She can be escorted to and from her necessary classes, excused from those where she is responsible only for book study and essay-writing, and can take her meals in her Common Room."

"Severus, I am not putting her under house arrest after everything else she's been through!"

"I do not trust Potter, Longbottom, Lovegood or the Weasleys to protect her," he said, scowling.

"Could we assign a ghost to watch over her?"

He snorted. "Yes, perhaps Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington can float about and make Malfoy feel a bit chilly if he attempts to injure her."

"Surely if something truly dangerous happens to her, you will be alerted."

He kept quiet for several minutes before he answered: "I do not know, Minerva." He spoke slowly, carefully measuring the words. "I do not fully understand… that is to say, I am not positive that the connection can be relied upon to alert me every time she is threatened."

"A Charm, then, perhaps?"

"Possibly. I wondered—I thought perhaps we might… work _with_ the enchantment, solely for the purposes of dealing with this possibility. It might be wise to discover if we can… intentionally communicate through the connection we share."

"Intentionally?" she stared at him over the tops of her spectacles. "I thought you were attempting to distance yourself?"

"Yes," he admitted slowly, "but it seems that distancing myself only works so far. The enchantment is, like most enchantments, proving to be difficult to circumvent through mere willpower, and I know of no magic that will loosen the bonds that it wishes to tighten."

She frowned at him. "You are keeping your emotional distance as much as you can, are you not?"

Severus bowed his head in assent, hoping it was true.

"Very well. You have my leave to discuss it with her—but not yet. I would prefer to wait and see if we can discover what this weakness is and do something about it before Malfoy and his thugs come rampaging through my school again."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: To those of you who have asked... no, I am not going to abandon this or leave it in any way as a permanent WIP. Yes, I will be finishing it. I promise. There are certain people I'm rooming with at Portus who would try to kill me in my bed if I didn't. 

However, the update rate has slowed down (as you allb.ave noticed) and I am not sure if I can promise that it will speed back up. I have been incredibly sick, and working full-time at a new job. I'll do my best to keep up the pace, but if it's slow, that's why.

No worries, though. I will keep on keeping on. Treasure will be finished.

Don't kill me for the fake-out at the beginning of the chapter. Think of it as a promise of things to come. Plus, come on, Snape is so obviously in love with her now, how can you be mad at me?


	51. At The Gate Alone

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

Chapter 51: At The Gate Alone

* * *

Hermione found herself walking to class alone once again, and, once again, it was Ron's fault. 

Ron's Charms tutoring session had run late, not for the first time. She and Harry (who had escorted her from her last class to meet up with Ron) waited for as long as they could, but there were only so many points that Hermione was willing to lose for lateness in the name of safety. She finally sent Harry on his way, shouldered her bag, and set off for the dungeons.

She was halfway there when the jinx hit her in the back.

As she fell, her bag flew from her hand and hit the ground. It split open, scattering books, quills, parchment, and ink everywhere across the floor. She tried to get up, but her legs were uncontrollably shaky. They refused to support her, and she fell again, hitting the stone floor with a painful thud. Behind her, she heard Romilda Vane laughing.

"Jelly-Legs Jinx," she jeered, aiming a kick at Hermione's ribs. "How do you feel now, you ugly twat? Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

Hermione looked around desperately for someone who might help her, but there were no Potions classes at the moment, and she was too far down towards the dungeons to hope that another tardy student might just happen to pass by. The hallway was empty for as far as she was able to see. She and Romilda appeared to be alone.

"Nobody's here," said Romilda sharply, confirming her fear, "and this is only between you and me anyhow. I want you to stop bloody interfering in my life."

Hermione stared, with as much incredulity as she could muster while looking into the face of someone who had first attacked her from behind, and then kicked her while she was down. "Interfering in your life? What are you talking about?"

"Don't you play innocent with me! You kept me away from Harry Potter. Don't try to deny it. I _know_ it was you! Who else would care who Harry dated? Well," she added, "except Ginny Weasley, but she was seeing Dean Thomas at the time, so I hardly think _she_ was the reason."

"If you had to use a love potion to get at him, I'd say you didn't stand a good chance even if I hadn't got involved," said Hermione nastily, before she could think better of it.

"I knew it!" said Romilda angrily, her cheeks becoming mottled with an ugly shade of red. "I bloody _knew_ it was you! And don't you go trying to give me relationship advice now, Granger. I did what I could, you know. Why do you think I'm tops in Defense Against the Dark Arts? I knew it was Harry's best subject… not that it did me much good, once Ginny Weasley got her claws in him. But then you threw Ron Weasley over and, well, he's a war hero now too."

"Good to know you didn't date him for any sort of _shallow_ reason," muttered Hermione, trying to get her legs to work properly, with no success.

"And then you had to go spoiling things _again_!" shrieked Romilda, looking as if she might well explode from the force of her fury.

Hermione furrowed her brow. "What are you talking about?"

Romilda scowled. "Oh, don't pretend you don't know that he broke up with me. Everyone knows about it. Just like everyone knows that you two are back to being the best of friends. For all I know, you're even snogging him in the hallways again."

"OI!" roared Ron, who had just appeared at the stairs. "What do you think you're doing, you?"

He spoke a moment too late, though. Romilda had already aimed another spell at Hermione. She didn't hear the incantation, but judging by the sudden tingling and stinging in her skin, she guessed that it was some sort of stinging hex.

"What do you bloody think you're doing?" repeated Ron, who had sprinted towards them and now had his wand trained on Romilda.

She lowered her own wand somewhat, looking very unhappy. "Hermione and I were just having a chat."

"Oh, and I suppose she tripped on her robes and you just hexed her in order to be helpful?"

"I didn't say it was a _friendly_ chat," muttered Romilda.

Ron didn't lower his wand. "Right. That's what I thought. What's all this about, Romilda?"

"Apparently," said Hermione waspishly, more annoyed than anything else, now that Ron had arrived, "I've snatched you away from her and she's feeling rather heartbroken about it."

Ron, to Hermione's endless pleasure and satisfaction, burst out laughing.

The fact that he evidently found Romilda's accusation as ludicrous as Hermione did filled her with a sense of good feeling towards him that she hadn't experienced since he'd deserted them in the Forest of Dean. It seemed to ally them against a common, trivial foe in a way that reminded her pleasantly of a host of happy memories and experiences she had long since stopped thinking of.

Romilda looked very uncertain about what the proper response might be to Ron's laughter, and eventually decided on maintaining a sullen silence.

Ron made an effort to compose himself and, when he had finally managed to stop laughing, he turned and pointed his wand at Hermione instead of Romilda.

"_Finite Incantatem_," he said, leaning down and taking her by the hand so that he could help her to her feet.

Her knees finally supported her as they ought to do, although the unpleasant tingling sensation in her skin still lingered. She rubbed her arms with her hands, trying to dispel the feeling.

"It's got nothing to do with _her_, you daft bint!" said Ron irritably, once he'd assured himself that Hermione was not seriously injured, although he didn't let go of her even then. "It has to do with you being underage, attention-mad, and—and—" he went a bit red around the ears "—and after knowing a bit about what real love is like, I guess I've lost my taste for meaningless snogging."

Romilda's mouth fell open. So did Hermione's.

"High time," said a low, furious voice, "that you did."

"Professor Snape," said Ron, his grip on Hermione tightening a little, although he had less reason to be anxious than Romilda did, at the moment.

Hermione, still leaning on Ron for support, raised her head. Professor Snape had come up unnoticed from behind them, and now he stepped between Hermione and Romilda. His nostrils flared wide, and his jaw was clenched tightly. Hermione no longer found him frightening, but he was so obviously angry that even she was intimidated. Romilda looked completely petrified, all of the color drained from her face.

"You will explain to me why it is that you three are out in the hallway during classtime, and you will tell me _now_, before I decide to simply remove the House points you so richly deserve to lose, and send you all to Filch for… discipline," he said softly.

He was not looking at Hermione, but she imagined that she could feel his awareness of her, and his annoyance with her for once again getting herself in this sort of situation… if annoyance it could be called. She suspected that a significant portion of his visible anger might end up being directed at her.

Ron cleared his throat and stuck out his chin manfully. "It's all my fault, Professor. This was my period to walk Hermione to your class, and I ran late. She had to go ahead without me, and bumped into Romilda, who—"

"Hexed her," supplied Professor Snape, in a voice that could probably kill small animals simply by the viciousness of its tone. "Although, I fail to see why you are attempting to heap all the blame upon yourself, Weasley. Miss Vane must answer for her own actions. Bad enough that you failed to protect Miss Granger from attack through your blatant carelessness and negligence. Offensive as it will surely be to your Gryffindor sensibilities, I suggest that you let Miss Vane get the punishment that is coming to her. I hardly think you need to add still _another_ black mark to the registry of things that you have done wrong where Miss Granger's safety and… feelings… are concerned."

Under her hand, Hermione felt the muscles of Ron's arm tense and release as he flinched.

"As for you, Miss Vane, now that the subject has been broached," continued Professor Snape, his voice growing still more menacing, "one hundred points will be deducted from Gryffindor for a completely unjustified attack on a fellow student. You will lose another twenty for the fact that you knew that student to be unable to defend herself. You will serve detention with Filch for the next seven days, and you will pay a visit to the Headmistress, to whom I shall personally recommend your immediate expulsion from this school."

"But sir!" protested Romilda with a look of desperate appeal. "You can't—"

"On the contrary, Miss Vane," he interrupted angrily, "you will find that I _can_, and that I most certainly will. Your behavior is utterly disgusting. Were I your Head of House, I would expel you on the spot. I will not tolerate this sort of despicable behavior."

Romilda's eyes were wide, and filling quickly with mortified tears. "That's something, coming from you!" she cried wildly. "After what this school was like last year, you've hardly got a leg to stand on about discipline or good behavior, have you?"

Hermione and Ron both looked at Professor Snape, Hermione privately wondering whether Romilda had simply gone insane, or maybe developed a death wish. From the way Ron was looking at her, she was pretty sure that he was wondering the same thing. In fact, though, she'd rather expected Professor Snape to interrupt her before she finished her statement, but his mouth was closed tightly, his nostrils flaring again.

"As I recall," he murmured, after a few seconds of staring at her, "you took very well to the Dark Lord's… curriculum, which I had no choice but to implement. Let us not begin casting stones, Miss Vane. I may be a more obvious target, but I have far better aim than you."

To Hermione's relief, Romilda subsided into tearful silence. Professor Snape scowled and dismissed her with a brusque, angry gesture.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for your ineptitude as a guardian, Weasley," he snapped, once Romilda had gone. "I suppose you never stopped to consider what might have happened to her had she been confronted with a truly _dangerous _enemy, or if I had not left the classroom to discover why Miss Granger was tardy?"

Ron shuffled his feet. "You're right, Professor," he admitted, looking profoundly unhappy, and glancing in Hermione's direction with an apologetic expression.

"It is up to Miss Granger to decide whether she is willing to put her life in your hands yet again after this," said Professor Snape coldly. "If she is wise, however, she will learn that some things never change. Miss Granger, gather up your things and come with me. I will attend to your injuries, and then I will attempt to salvage some portion of your lesson for today."

0 0 0

He glared at everything they passed as he walked Hermione back to their classroom, gracing the unoffending doors and walls with the full force of his lingering fury. There was no reason to spend it on Hermione, tempted though he was to do so. Romilda Vane and Ronald Weasley were by far more culpable, in his mind.

Oh, she bore some part of the blame. After all, she was the one who'd gone running off by herself. But, if it were not for them, he would have been able to merely shout at her and deduct points for her foolishness, rather than seeking her out and finding that he was too late to protect her from an attack by an obviously insane classmate.

He threw open the classroom door, flung his wand arm out in front of himself, and summoned a chair.

"Sit," he growled, taking her by the arm and pulling her unceremoniously to the chair, not letting go until she was seated. "You are injured," he muttered. Her skin was bright red, her hands and face slightly puffy—a burning hex, of some sort. Until she was treated, he knew, her skin would continue to burn slowly. Judging by the rate at which the burn was worsening, it wouldn't get hot enough to kill her, but even the weaker versions of the hex were capable of causing permanent disfiguration if not treated in good time.

He had found her almost immediately, though, and he knew how to treat her. She would be all right.

That reassuring knowledge did not stop his sudden hatred for Romilda Vane from reaching an entirely new level of intensity as he assessed the extent of her injuries, however.

"I'm not hurt, Professor," she protested, although he noticed that she was now looking down at her swollen, flame-red hands with evident surprise.

He snorted derisively. "Very well then, Miss Granger. If you feel no pain, go to your bench and brew some standard burn paste. You have just enough time to complete it before the end of the period, if you begin now and make no errors." He paused to give her an appraising look. "I trust that you remember the formula."

"Yes, sir," she answered, with unwonted meekness even for the much-changed Hermione Granger that he had grown accustomed to.

He watched her, maintaining the silence in the room for all of two minutes before his seething rage finally broke through his last bit of self-control and, for lack of another target, directed itself at her.

"Of all the foolish, asinine, headstrong things to do, Miss Granger, wandering the halls alone and unarmed when you were _strictly_ ordered not to, and when you had a run-in with Miss Vane a mere two days ago is one of the worst. Had you been anybody other than who you are, that previous incident would have driven home the seriousness and vulnerability of your situation! To you, however, it seems to have meant nothing, and now not only you, but your entire House must reap the consequences of your foolhardy behavior."

He paused for breath. She kept her head down, and her lower lip firmly locked between her teeth. She appeared to be devoting every ounce of her attention to the burn paste, although he was convinced that by now she, like he, could concoct it in her sleep, and do so with total success. He wondered why it was that she wasn't crying. The Hermione of the past had been most eager to please and, so, easily wounded. Now, she let him shout, and calmly went about her business.

"You are a member of the Order of the Phoenix," he growled, when she did not respond to him. "You have been kept apprised of the progress of the war. You know that there are Death Eaters at large, and that you are one of their known enemies. What if one of _them_ had been your attacker, instead of Romilda Vane? What if I had not happened to come after you, or if Weasley had simply gone on to his next class, without first assuring himself of your safety? It was completely irresponsible!"

Her left hand was quivering slightly, and he was helplessly aware that he was shouting at her. But he couldn't stop. His anger had given way to a sudden and unexpected torrent of anxieties that, before they'd crossed his lips, had previously been unknown to him. Now, as he looked down at her, watching the burns redden and slowly begin to blister on her skin, he realized how devastating it might really be to lose her—it would be like, he thought, losing a part of himself.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste at how very saccharine that thought seemed, even when he expressed it only in his mind. Saccharine it might be, but it was also a literal truth, and he did not wish to discover with how little ease he might cope with such a loss.

Somewhat subdued by this new revelation, he crossed his arms over his chest, watching her and waiting for an answer. When it still didn't come, he asked: "What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Granger?"

She released her lip from between her teeth, but then took several more moments before she whispered, "I didn't want to be late."

He raised his eyebrows. "And why, pray tell, was that worth risking your life?"

She shrugged indifferently, lighting a fire beneath her cauldron with a poke of her wand (one of the only things that she could still do well), and adding the thick, greasy wax that served as a base for the paste.

"You would have been angry," she said, so softly that he almost missed it.

"I am angry with you now! Did you think I value punctuality over the further continuation of your life?"

Again, the indifferent little shrug. "Maybe."

He drew back, shocked and offended. Was that what she thought of him?

"That was foolish in the extreme," he said, very quietly.

"I don't see why. Really, it would be doing you a bit of a favor, wouldn't it? You could stop worrying about me; everyone could. And you'd be… free."

He blinked, his anxiety for her well being growing nearly overwhelming. He thought, as he had done so many times in recent days, of the dream in which he had kissed her. If he could only take her into his arms and comfort her. She was so forlorn and pathetic and alone, and surely it would fix things, if only there were someone there to offer her a little solace. Instead, he arched one eyebrow, assuming his most sarcastic manner.

"I suppose I am to understand from this," he said, sneering, "that you long for my death, and for _your_ subsequent freedom? How ironic, when it was you yourself who kept me alive when death ought to have come to me. Having regrets, Miss Granger?"

"No," she whispered, her eyes beginning to glisten with unshed tears. "I don't. I'm not."

"Ah. It is merely to me that you wish to attribute such… unpleasant sentiments? I am very touched by your esteem."

"I didn't mean it like that!" she protested, blinking very rapidly.

"Then I suggest that you clarify to me what it is that you _do_ mean," he snapped. He knew already, though, what she meant, and what she felt. The force of it was nearly overwhelming when he was so close to her and so intently focused on her emotions.

"I—I don't know what I really mean," she said slowly. It was taking costing her a great and obvious effort to control her voice, and it still shook in spite of her best attempts to keep it from doing so.

"I see," he said, unsure of how to express the deep sympathy and understanding that welled up in him at the sight of her miserable face. It seemed to him that he understood her perfectly—but what could he say? He was her professor, and she his student. And he was so very much older than she was.

He realized in that moment what grave danger he was in. If he was not very careful, he would fall in love with her.

A sudden thought dawned on him then. Perhaps he already _had_ fallen in love with her.

To his great surprise, he was not entirely appalled by the idea. She was brilliant and pretty, and literally his soul mate. Perhaps it would be stranger for him _not_ to fall in love with her.

He left her to finish brewing her burn paste, busying himself with another potion of his own, and wishing that he could find something helpful to say to her. The potion was a meaningless bit of busywork, simple enough that he could brew it while also observing her as minutely as he chose—although, soon he found that he didn't need to observe her at all. Even when he kept his eyes averted, he was almost painfully aware of her presence, and attuned to her every movement.

The realization that the enchantment's reputation was apparently not as romanticized as Dumbledore had led him to believe, and that he had, indeed, succumbed to the worst of that reputation, left him feeling a strange sense of liberation. It was strangely easy to accept his seemingly inevitable fate, in a way that it had never been easy for him before.

He stole another glance at her, just in time to see her push a strand of damp hair from her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. In spite of the mottled red color of her burned skin, he thought she was lovely.

Severus sighed and glanced back down at his worktable. Although he probably could mince daisy roots without so much as a glance at what he was doing, he still liked to check periodically and make sure that his hands and knife really were where he thought they were. Better wizards than him had lost fingers before, and he didn't much fancy slicing one of them off in front of her, especially.

In a strange way, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from him, although it was only removed in order that it might be replaced with another one. His worries had been so feeble, so pointless. What did it matter if he fell in love with her… or she with him? Not that she would, he reminded himself. It would never do to think of it. It would never do to even hope to hope for it.

Now, he had something to truly worry about. Even though she would never know it (he would see to that), she was his responsibility, and he intended to protect and care for her as best he could.

He almost enjoyed the sense of helplessness that he felt. His situation was, at last, clearly delineated, the boundaries and rules established. He loved her, or was very close to doing so. She would never reciprocate. How could she? She was as young and vibrant as he was old and scarred. To be sure, she was scarred herself—perhaps even as badly as he was. But she was still young and resilient, and hopefully she had not absorbed so much of his character that she would waste her life away in bitterness and anger.

With these thoughts, and others like them, he whiled away the time, watching her from the corners of his eyes when he felt it was safe to do so. He was proud of how far she'd come, and of how obviously talented she was. She had amazing potential, really. For the first time, he began to seriously consider taking her as a formal apprentice, as Minerva had suggested. She was practically his apprentice already. In many areas, they'd moved far beyond even NEWT-level curriculum, and she had handled it beautifully.

"It's finished," she said, interrupting his reverie.

He left his potion under a hastily muttered stasis charm, and went to inspect the product of her efforts.

It was, as always, perfect. Her fingers by now were so swollen and blistered that he felt a momentary astonishment as to how she'd managed to finish brewing at all. Now that she had nothing to do with her hands, she held them gingerly in the air, flexing her fingers occasionally in an experimental sort of way, and attempting to separate those of them that were already sticking together where blisters had ruptured and begun to crust over.

"Adequate," was all he said. He decanted the paste into the jar that she'd prepared, and cupped her pathetic, blistered-covered hand in both of his, being careful first to shield his emotions from her as completely as he could. He had reason to believe that he'd been successful at it for once, too. Although she evinced a mild surprise at his touch, she did not draw back or express enough surprise to discomfit him, which she surely would have done if his new burst of self-knowledge had broken through the mental armor in which he had encased it.

When he had managed to find a way to comfortably hold her hand without causing her too much pain, he dipped his fingers into the jar of chilly salve, and began to gently pry apart the stuck-together fingers, and to rub burn paste between them. He held her hand open until the paste was thoroughly absorbed into her skin, and the fingers were returning to their proper color and size. If pressed, he might have admitted, at least in the relative privacy of his own mind, that he held her hand a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary. She, however, would not know that.

Then, abruptly, he dropped her hand, and turned his back to her, going back to his own work.

"You have one working hand now," he said shortly, "and I have demonstrated the proper method for applying the salve to burned hands. Inform me when you have finished seeing to your face and hands, and I shall remove myself to the hallway, so that you will have an opportunity to attend to your… less visible injuries before I escort you to your next class."

0 0 0

"Romilda Vane is a fat cow," said Ginny with great feeling, as she rubbed burn paste into the areas of her back that Hermione had been unable to reach in the Potions classroom earlier. The skin was rubbed raw from the friction of her school robes, and the burn paste felt amazingly good on it. "Dumping her is the first thing he's done in ages that actually makes me feel sort of proud to have him for my brother."

"Same here," said Hermione, through gritted teeth. "Well, not my brother, but you know what I mean. Although, I wish he'd made it a bit more clear when he did it that it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with her being raving mad."

Ginny snickered. "A mad cow."

Hermione tugged her shirt back down. "Between you and Harry, I've heard more bad jokes this term…"

"I think Harry reckons it's a good way to cope with being miserable. I guess I've picked up the habit from him. You have to admit, he's doing better than he was. Sometimes he's actually funny."

"Really?" Hermione stretched out on her bed and began to flip through a Potions book she'd just got from the library. "I hadn't noticed. Tell me the next time it happens, will you? I'd like to mark it down in my diary."

"Oh, clever," retorted Ginny, unimpressed. "You've been spending too much time alone with Snape. You were never this sarcastic before."

Hermione snorted. "Well, we _are_ madly in love."

"Makes sense, then," admitted Ginny complacently, getting out her own homework, and beginning to sharpen her quill.

0 0 0

Severus wrapped his cloak a little more tightly about himself. Knockturn Alley was dark and cold, and he kept one hand firmly attached to the handle of his wand. He loathed the very sight of the place, but for some ingredients, he simply had no other options. He had long since cultivated a cordial, if not pleasant, working relationship with the ancient crone who ran Knockturn Alley's only apothecary.

Still, a not entirely hostile relationship with one of the Alley's inhabitants was not a sufficient reason to linger, and he did not spend any more time selecting his purchases than he absolutely needed to. As soon as he could, he headed back out into the relative bright light and clean air of the alley, his purchases carefully concealed within the inner pockets of his robes. Putting his head down, he began to make his way back towards Diagon Alley.

He had only gone a very few steps when he thought he heard someone say his name aloud behind him. It distracted him, and he paused and looked over his shoulder to see who it might be.

His attention diverted before his momentum had entirely ceased, he walked straight into Petunia Dursley.

He nearly didn't recognize her. In addition to the fact that she was the last person in the world that he expected to literally bump into while walking through Knockturn Alley, she was swathed in a heavy cloak that flapped around her in the chilly wind. They stared at each other for a moment, her pinched, sour face peering up at him from beneath the heavy green folds of her hood.

A moment later, her companion, who Severus had barely even noticed, grabbed her by the arm and whisked her away through a door that immediately closed behind them. The door swung shut with a bang, and he heard the click of a lock. Within seconds, the entire door had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only a blank expanse of wall behind.

He stared dumbly at the wall for a few moments, and then, forgetting his other errands completely, he Disapparated to Hogsmeade.

0 0 0

"Neville?" asked Hermione hesitantly.

He looked up and gave her a faint smile. "Hallo, Hermione."

"Could I talk with you for a minute? Er… alone?" She glanced apologetically at Hannah Abbot, who was bent over an advanced Herbology textbook and reading something, her lips moving silently and a deeply puzzled expression on her face.

Hannah and Neville exchanged a look, and then Neville, apparently bolstered by Hannah's encouraging smile, stood up.

"Of course," he said gallantly. "That would be fine. Want to go for a walk or something?"

Hermione, relieved, smiled at him. "A walk would be perfect. It's nice outside today. How about the gardens?"

Neville grinned. "Excellent. Mind if we stop by the greenhouses, actually? I've got a project I need to check on."

Hermione did not mind, and, once they had fetched their cloaks, they walked in a companionable silence until they reached the greenhouses. Neville took her arm and guided her over a tiny, winding path that led to a small, enclosed building that Hermione had never been into or even seen before.

He fumbled in his pockets, eventually producing a small, black key. While he wrestled it into the rusty-looking padlock on the door, Hermione stamped her feet to keep them from getting cold, and kept her arms crossed over her chest.

"Why did you get assigned to private Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons instead of Herbology, Neville?" she asked, as the lock finally gave and Neville pulled hard on the door, attempting to get it to open.

"Oh," he said. "Well, Professor Sprout said there wasn't much point in taking _lessons_ any longer. I've already got so far ahead of the NEWT curriculum, she just lets me have access to the greenhouses to do what I like, really. I'm apprenticing with her next year. I guess you could say that we've sort of unofficially started already."

"That's wonderful, Neville!"

He smiled at her, and then stumbled slightly as the door suddenly opened.

The building was dark inside, except for a faint, greenish glow that seemed to be emanating from the floor. She heard something like faintly lapping water, and was on the point of going forward to investigate, when Neville put his arm out to keep her from approaching.

"What is that?"

"Don't go forward, or you'll fall into the water. I'm experimenting with a few different types of water plants… trying to infuse non-Magical plants with magical properties, in order to make them more useful for Potions or for straight use without _needing_ to brew a potion, as most potions are only—"

"A method for enhancing the magical properties of the ingredients they include," she interrupted, finishing his sentence for him. "Although I don't know that I'd say _only_. Potions are always more than the sum of their parts. We learned that back in sixth year, with antidotes. But that's fascinating. I'm sure it would increase the potency of dozens of common potions, if not hundreds!"

"Maybe," said Neville, with the air of someone attempting not to sound as proud of himself as he really was.

"Of course, you'd have to alter the formula for each of them as well, as a result, and it would probably take ages to test all of it," she mused. "But it's really a brilliant idea, Neville. Why have you got it so dark in here?"

He was leaning over the tank in the floor and crooning softly to the plant within, as he inspected its leaves one by one. They curled and uncurled around his fingers like a baby's hand, and he smiled fondly at them.

"It's a type of seaweed. It was pretty hardy when I first started working with it, but as its magical properties have been enhanced, so have a few of its other characteristics. It's extremely photosensitive now. It stops growing if you leave it in a lit-up area for too long."

"Neville," said Hermione, with a sudden feeling that if she didn't simply say what she needed to say, she was never going to be able to do it. She'd had an idea that she might be able to work up to it slowly. But how did one work up slowly to something like this?

"Yes?" he asked, still absorbed in his plant.

"Professor Snape owes me a life debt."

He still didn't turn around to look at her, but his soft humming stopped abruptly, as did the gentle movements with which he had been turning over and inspecting the leaves of the seaweed. "I know," he said quietly.

"Have you ever heard of—of an enchantment that lets you call someone back from the dead?"

She waited a very long time for his answer.

"Gran told some stories, you know," he finally said. "Fairy tales… soul bonding and things." He gave a short, tense laugh. "But it doesn't really happen. That's just wizard's madness, you know?"

She stared through the darkness at the outline of his body where it stood out against the very faint glitter of the water below.

"Yes," she said softly. "I thought that too. Only—well, it isn't."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Ahh, another chapter finally done! This was actually finished on Thursday, but it was completely handwritten, and I had a houseguest all weekend and no time to type it up. Sorry. I worked so hard to get it done before he arrived, and I just ran completely out of time. 

Love and more love to all of my readers and reviewers, and all of the dear friends who have encouraged and cajoled me into getting this chapter done. I've started adjusting to my new work schedule and my job, so I'm hoping that the next chap will come along a little more quickly.

Oh, and P.S.: He loves her! Squee!


	52. Dudley Delivered

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 52: Dudley Delivered**

* * *

"Minerva, it is crucial that we meet with at least the senior members of the Order immediately." 

Minerva looked at him in mild surprise. "Another revelation about Death Eaters in our midst, Severus?" she said, lifting an eyebrow. "I sometimes wonder if Hermione Granger has been a bad influence on you. You never used to be this insistent about things."

He ignored the comment. There was no point in being anything but direct, and if that was an opinion he had gleaned from Hermione—well, he would find a way to cope with that.

"I have just seen Petunia Dursley in Knockturn Alley, Minerva. Surely you concede that in this case, my unwillingness to hesitate before taking action is a matter of facts, and not of having been tainted by association with a Gryffindor."

When he'd spoken Petunia's name, Minerva's lips had pressed together so tightly that they turned white. She kept them that way for another few moments while she considered her answer.

When she spoke, she said exactly what he'd been anticipating. "That's preposterous," she snapped.

"I could not agree more," he said dryly. "However, the fact remains that I saw her."

"Impossible, Severus. You must have been mistaken."

"I assure you that I was not."

"She has had no contact with the magical world since you parted ways outside of Azkaban—which I am _still_ displeased with you about, by the way—and even if she _was_ wandering about in the Wizarding district, I hardly think she'd be fool enough to venture into Knockturn Alley."

"She had a companion. I did not see who it was. And, I am afraid, we must remember that not all of the magical world is in the Order. You cannot therefore assume that, simply because she has ignored all of_ our_ operatives, she has ignored all of Wizarding Britain. We have already been over the details of the conversation that she and I had after her visit to Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban. We must admit the possibility that she has managed to contact the Death Eaters, or someone sympathetic to them."

"Preposterous," she snapped, although she did not look as if she believed it.

"I am as loathe to consider it as you are, Minerva, but the fact remains, I saw Petunia Dursley in Knockturn Alley, and we must discuss what is to be done about it."

"Very well," she said, sighing. "You're absolutely right, of course. I don't wish everyone to know, however. I will get in touch with a few people, and I'll let you know as soon as I've heard when Kingsley will be able to make it to Hogwarts."

He inclined his head. A moment later, he cleared his throat. "I also wish to discuss another matter with you."

"I suppose you mean Romilda Vane."

"You have spoken with her, I assume."

"And with her parents, and with Dumbledore, and with the Board of Governors. She's been expelled."

He did not smile so much as twist his lips into something less like a frown. "For once, it seems that you and I are in accord on a matter of Gryffindor discipline."

"She could have done a great deal of permanent physical damage, had you not happened upon them, and recognized what it was she'd cast. It was the second attack she made on Miss Granger in a week, and she'd been expressly warned to stay away from her. I will not have defenseless students attacked in my school."

"An admirable sentiment, Minerva. Has she left the school yet?"

"As of this morning."

"I am most pleased to hear it."

"I can tell," she said, a hint of a smile on her lips. "You're not scowling at me."

"I also wished to consult with you on another matter relating to Miss Granger."

Minerva leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingertips together, and looking at him over her glasses, with an expression he had seen far too many times over the years. "Nearly everything that you consult with me about has to do with Miss Granger these days, Severus. Is there anything going on that you ought to be telling me?"

"There always is, Minerva, and I rarely disclose all of it. However, in this instance, I have nothing shocking to tell you." He had a brief, amusing vision of what her face would look like if he let slip that he was falling fast into a maelstrom of unrequited love for her favorite and most talented student. No, certainly best not to mention that.

"That is not entirely comforting. What do you want to ask me about? Not the matter of exploiting the enchantment to communicate telepathically again, is it? You've already got my permission for that, as little as I like it."

"I have not yet found an acceptable opportunity to bring that particular question up with her, in fact. I wished to ask about something much more prosaic. I would like to take her on as an apprentice."

"Is she willing?"

"I have not yet asked her. I wished first to discover whether you felt it would be appropriate, given the… special circumstances involved."

She sniffed. "I had no objection to her taking private lessons with you, and the special circumstances have not changed—have they?" Her gaze suddenly grew much sharper, and there was most certainly something of the Gryffindor lioness about her at that moment.

However, she had not the power to penetrate his mind that Dumbledore had, and he bore her scrutiny coolly. "The enchantment is as it ever was," he said smoothly. "I merely wished to observe the necessary formalities."

"You have my permission to offer her an apprenticeship, if you really wish it. I do find it to be a strange change of heart, given how strenuously you objected to taking her as a private student at all."

He shrugged, looking down at his immaculate white cuff and inspecting it for any hint of dirt. "As much as I hate to admit it, I have discovered that, while I do not enjoy her company or find her particularly interesting, it is convenient to have her nearby."

"Convenient?"

He did not smile, although some perverse part of him wished to, when he thought of the lie he'd just told her. "Given her inability to protect herself, and my unfortunate compulsion to do just that, it is simplest for her to remain close by. An apprenticeship provides the perfect opportunity—and, what is far more germane, she shows an aptitude for Potions that I can only attribute to the fact that she has been influenced by me to a significant degree."

"Oh naturally," said Minerva, with just a touch of sarcasm. "That's the only reason she might show a bit of talent."

But the remark was not as acerbic as it could have been, and he knew that she would dig no deeper into his motivations than she already had.

"I assume, then, that I have your consent?" he asked.

"I am not entirely sure that I'm comfortable with this apparent increase of dependency between the two of you, but as you assure me that your personal feelings towards her are unchanged and that it is merely for her own protection and your peace of mind—yes, you have my consent."

0 0 0

"I still don't understand," said Neville. In spite of having heard it several times over the last day and a half, he was still having trouble accepting her story.

"Which part don't you understand?" asked Hermione, rubbing her eyes, and feeling exhausted. They were in an empty classroom, practicing wand movements for Transfiguration. Hermione was relatively certain that she had hers down perfectly, but it was endlessly frustrating to not be really _sure_, and without results, she never would be. She'd finally given up, put her wand down, and taken a rest.

Neville, however, was still trying, and the desk he'd been trying to transfigure into a pony was trotting merrily about the room and emitting whinnying noises from a mouth that it didn't have.

"I don't know," he said, shrugging helplessly. "All of it?"

"I saved Professor Snape's life by calling his soul back from death, and now our souls are inextricably linked, which means that sometimes we can read each others' thoughts and minds, and sometimes we share dreams with each other. Also, when there's something really intense going on, emotionally speaking, we'll—we'll share it," she said, rather lamely. "Sort of."

"What do you mean, you'll share it?"

She shrugged, scratching at an ages-old ink stain on the desk where she sat. "He saw when Wilkes was torturing my mum and dad."

Neville pondered this in silence for a few minutes, and made a few more attempts on his half-transfigured desk, which sprouted a wooden-looking tail and immediately began to wave and swish it around. For a desk, it managed to look very pleased with itself. Hermione frowned at it.

"So that's how he knew to go after you to Australia, then? I wondered what it was."

"Nobody else seems to have."

"Well, even if they had, nobody was about to ask you, were they? After all you've been going through, I don't think anyone has really wanted to try."

"Ah," she said vaguely, and her frown deepened. "Why?"

He shrugged again. "Didn't want to make you think about it any more than you already were—at least, I didn't. Don't know if Harry and Ron had other reasons. Anyway, Harry and I talked about it, and he reckoned that it was just because Snape knew that there were Death Eaters in Australia, but it still didn't really answer how he knew you were gone in the first place, did it?"

"I guess not," she admitted.

"When you fainted in the Common Room—"

"He was being attacked by a Dementor."

Neville whistled softly. "That's not much good for you, is it? So, any time Snape gets attacked, you feel it?"

"I—I don't know if it works that way, exactly. Dementors go after your soul. And that's where we're connected, so it only makes sense that I'd feel it."

"He didn't actually feel it when Wilkes was… you know, hurting you?"

She blinked. "I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"The only reason I know he got attacked by a Dementor was because Madame Pomfrey told me. We don't exactly chat about it."

"I wouldn't know," said Neville, rather shortly.

"I'm sorry."

He waved his wand at his desk again, and it finally managed to assume the shape of a pony, albeit one with a lovely wood-grain pattern all along its body. It trotted up to Hermione and butted her affectionately on the shoulder.

"What're you sorry for?" he asked, watching her bury her hands in the pony's mane and run her fingers through it slowly.

"I don't know," she said helplessly. "For telling you about all this. For burdening you with it. I suppose for letting it happen at all."

"I don't mind you telling me. That's what friends are for, after all, and you already know how I—well, let's just say I don't mind if you want to tell me about things. And it isn't exactly your fault. You didn't know what would happen… did you?" he asked hesitantly.

"No."

"Exactly," he said, looking much relieved. "And I'm not going to blame you for it. I don't like Snape much, but it isn't as if ever I wanted him dead. I think really it says something about _you_, more than anything else. How many people are there who would care so much about someone like Snape that they could do something like that?"

She shrugged, still looking at the pony, which was now attempting to nibble a button off her sleeve.

"Not many," he continued confidently, when she didn't answer. "It just goes to show what a good person you are, Hermione."

"I guess so," she said, not really believing it.

He dug around in his pockets and produced a bit of carrot, which he'd apparently saved from their lesson earlier in the day. He held it out to the pony, which abandoned Hermione's button for the carrot immediately.

"Why was it me you told?" he asked, as the pony delicately lifted the carrot from his palm with its teeth.

"I don't know. It seemed like the thing to do, I guess." She suddenly bit her lip, burying her face in her hands and letting loose a little sob. "I'm so _confused_, Neville. I don't know what to do. I never asked for this, and things are hard enough without having to try and understand Professor Snape and how to deal with him. And I'm only just starting to realize that—that—well, I'm stuck with him, aren't I? For the rest of my life. What am I going to _do_?"

"I suppose that's why he got so angry about me—er—well, about me wanting to be better friends with you?" asked Neville delicately.

She sniffled loudly, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "Yes."

"Makes sense," he said, sounding morose, although his face didn't show it. "Here, Hermione, take my hanky. Gran always makes me carry one. Well, I always knew there was a reason I was going to regret being so bad in Potions."

It was a brave attempt at a joke, and Hermione smiled wanly. "Told you so."

"I know you aren't ready. Maybe you'll never be. When you are, though, is that going to… stand in the way? I mean, are you trying to warn me off?"

"That isn't why I told you about it."

"All right. What can I do for you, Hermione? I want to help. I don't know how, though. I still don't really understand why you told me at all. Why not Ron or Harry or Ginny?"

She looked him, feeling a sort of desperation that she couldn't explain. "I don't know, Neville. I'm sorry. I know that's no help at all. I could never talk to Ron about something like this, and Harry would never understand. Ginny's pureblood, so at least she'd have an inkling of what I was really talking about, but I've tried to think of how I could bring it up with her, and I couldn't even imagine it. I just needed to tell _someone_, and you seemed like the only option."

He gave a bitter-sounding little laugh.. "Good to know."

"Because I trust you," she continued. "I know you'll keep my secret, and I knew you wouldn't hate me for it, even if you didn't like it."

"I _don't_ like it. I don't like it at all.. But I won't hate you for it, and I'll keep it a secret, and if there's anything I can do to help, I'll do it, the minute you tell me to."

They sat in silence for a little while. Neville's hand twitched once, and she thought about reaching out to hold it—as he was obviously thinking about doing so as well—but she didn't. The pony, growing bored, wandered across the classroom, searching for grass and finding only stone floors.

"Hermione," said Neville after a long time, his voice sounding small and unhappy, "I need to ask you something."

Her heart suddenly seemed to be beating in the wrong rhythm, and her chest contracted uncomfortably. "Yes?"

"Those enchantments aren't even supposed to be real. But all the stories I've ever heard say that the people who are affected by them, they—they fall in love."

It wasn't really a question, in terms of grammatical rules, but they both knew without another word what he was asking. She took a second or two to marvel at his bravery in even bringing it up. Sometimes he showed his Gryffindor qualities in such unexpected ways.

"Professor Dumbledore's portrait said that's a myth."

"Oh," said Neville, more happily than before, "that's a relief."

0 0 0

"This session will need to be adjourned early," said Severus, "as I have a meeting with the Headmistress, which cannot be postponed."

He searched her face anxiously for any sign of disappointment, but she merely blinked curiously and then set her bag down on a chair and began to extract her Potions kit. "Yes, sir," was all she said.

"Put your kit away," he said, more irritably than he felt.

She glanced at him in surprise, and then complied, neatly re-packing it, fastening it, and tucking it back into her bag. When she'd finished, she bit her lip, looking at him. Her eyes were huge.

He looked away from them. They were dangerous to look at for too long.

"It is time that we discussed your curriculum for the rest of the year, Miss Granger."

For a moment, she brightened. "I was wondering about that," she began excitedly. "I mean, we've basically worked our way entirely through the text at this point, and the year isn't over. Obviously there's got to be a bit of time left for NEWT review, of course, but—"

"Quite," he interrupted, although he enjoyed her enthusiasm. "And we must now discuss your options."

"My options, sir?"

"Having completed the assigned text, you may, of course, be excused from lessons for the remainder of the term." He paused, again searching her face, searching his own feelings and attempting to differentiate his own emotions from what might be hers. Was she relieved? Disappointed? It was so hard to tell, or else he simply doubted what he saw. "Or," he finally continued, "you may opt to continue your studies above and beyond NEWT-level Potions."

Her mouth opened as if she was going to speak, but she said nothing. He could see excitement in her eyes, and he felt a warm surge of pleasure in his chest. She _did _want to continue—how could she doubt that she would have? Any opportunity to learn more would surely appeal to her, and she did seem to genuinely enjoy the subject.

"If you are interested, therefore," he said, when she still did not speak, "I wish to formally offer you the position of Potions Apprentice, starting immediately. The apprenticeship would begin as soon as the necessary contracts could be drawn up, and continue for the space of eighteen months, or until I choose to release you from it, should I be given legitimate cause to do so. Such causes are always outlined in the apprenticeship contract, of course."

Still, she didn't speak. His anxiety began to return, and he grew angry with himself for it. Was he doomed now to be reduced to the status of obsessive, self-conscious swain when he attempted to speak to her? It had been so long since he'd been really interested in a woman, and from what he remembered, he'd been very much the same way around Lily. Perhaps that was simply how he _was_ when he was… attracted.

He didn't much like that thought.

"You do not need to make the decision immediately. You may have as much time to think it over as you—"

"I think I'd like to do it," she said suddenly.

He took a breath. "You _think_?" he asked sardonically, quirking one eyebrow and narrowing his eyes at her. "Miss Granger, I have no intention on entering into a year and a half long commitment to an apprentice who merely _thinks_ that she'd like to try it. I refuse to accept an answer today, and then spend eighteen months enduring the repentance of an overreaching Gryffindor who made an impulsive decision to pursue something she was not capable of."

"Yes, sir," she said, a trifle rebelliously, "you're absolutely right, Professor. I was only wondering whether it was really a good idea, given the—the—"

"The _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_ is not a consideration in this offer one way or another, Miss Granger," he said dismissively, frowning at her. "I consider my apprenticeships solely on the basis of merit, which is why I offer them so rarely. If you do not wish to accept the honor based on any scruples on your part, it is certainly your right to do so." He sneered at her. "Although, I cannot say I approve of viewing it in such a… sentimental light."

"I don't view it in a sentimental light at all," she said, coloring.

He tried not to feel disappointed by the statement. He _knew_ she didn't, and he didn't want her to, after all. It could never be. He had accepted that it could never be. It was irrelevant that it could never be.

"In that case," he said coldly, "I see no reason for it to be an issue. Now, Miss Granger, I must meet Headmistress McGonagall. I will escort you to your Common Room, and you will find a classmate to walk you to your next class at the appropriate hour. I expect an answer regarding the apprenticeship offer by our next lesson."

They walked in silence to the portrait of the Fat Lady. Hermione gave the password and stepped through the hole.

He stood there, looking at the portrait as if he could see through it, until finally the Fat Lady shifted irritably and scowled at him. "Better get a move on," she said, "this isn't _your_ Common Room after all."

"I am no longer a student. None of the Common Rooms are mine," he snapped. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and stalked away, his robes billowing behind him as he went.

0 0 0

"Ginny!" squeaked Hermione, running into her bedroom excitedly. "Guess what!"

Ginny looked up from a massive pile of books and papers, blinking. "Er… what?"

"Professor Snape's just offered me an apprenticeship!"

"You mean a real, formal apprenticeship?"

"Yes!"

Ginny sat up immediately, a stack of books collapsing as she did. "I didn't know he took apprentices."

"Neither did I. I've no idea when the last time is that he took one."

"Wow. Well, if anyone deserves it, you do, Hermione. Did you accept?"

"He wouldn't let me give an answer yet. He said he doesn't want me to just answer on impulse."

"Awfully big of him."

Hermione shrugged. "He said he didn't want to listen to me complain for eighteen months if I accepted without thinking it over, and then found after it was too late that I didn't really want to do it."

Ginny smirked. "He doesn't know you very well, does he?"

0 0 0

It took Severus the better part of an hour to convince Kingsley, Harry, Arthur, and Percy that he'd really seen Petunia Dursley in Knockturn Alley. Part of that time had been spent on a whispered argument with Minerva over the necessity of having Percy Weasley be present for the discussion at all, but she argued (successfully) that, as their primary link to the Death Eaters, he ought to be informed. Severus had to concede the point.

"We've got to get Dudley out of Grimmauld Place," said Harry immediately, as soon as Severus had managed to get him to believe the story. Harry had been the hardest to convince, by far. Knowing Petunia best of all of them, he naturally had the most trouble conceiving of her appearance in a seedy, dirt-filled area of Wizarding London—although Severus wasn't sure whether it was the dirt or the magic which made it so difficult for Harry to imagine her there.

"I don't see the necessity for that," said Arthur slowly.

"Harry's right. If she's under the Imperius curse, they're sure to send her after Dudley," said Kingsley.

"And he knows things," said Harry. "You've let him stay in at least one Order meeting, and I'm sure he's overheard other conversations, and, well, he and I are friends now. I've finally got a family member I actually get along with. I'd rather he didn't get killed."

"Certainly," agreed Minerva, frowning. "But where to send him? If the Death Eaters have gained control over Petunia Dursley, he will be no better protected at his former safe house than he is at Grimmauld Place."

"We don't know it _is_ Death Eaters, though," Percy pointed out. "I haven't heard anything about Harry's aunt getting involved."

Severus shrugged. "Cooperation between the different Death Eaters groups has not yet been fully established, as you well know. It could be a faction other than Draco's."

"If she's so sympathetic to Lucius Malfoy, wouldn't she seek out Death Eaters who were closely associated with him? You don't get much more closely associated than being someone's son."

"I don't know about that," said Arthur briefly, with a significant look in his son's direction.

Percy looked slightly embarrassed. "Maybe not. But still, don't you think—"

"This is assuming," said Severus, "that she _intentionally_ sought to ally herself with Death Eaters—or, for that matter, with anyone of magical ability. The world is not divided only into Death Eaters and Order members, after all. If she is under the Imperius curse, she might well have been captured in Muggle London and brought into Knockturn Alley afterwards."

"Did she act as if she were under Imperius, Severus?" asked Arthur.

"I did not have a chance to speak with her. We bumped into one another, we looked at each other, and then her companion, who, as I have already said, I did not see clearly, removed her immediately from my presence."

"In either case, Dudley must be moved," said Minerva.

Percy shrugged. "We could create another safe house."

"What about the Burrow?" suggested Arthur. "I'm sure Molly wouldn't object, seeing as it's Harry's cousin."

"No good," said Percy. "Malfoy knows I'm living there, and it's still a possibility that he might drop in unannounced. It's one thing when it's you and mum and George. You can all protect yourselves. Dudley wouldn't be able to, if anything got out of hand."

"It's simple though, isn't it?" asked Harry, looking around at them.

"Is it?" asked Minerva, raising her eyebrows.

"He's got to come to Hogwarts. It's the last place they'd think to look, because he's a Muggle. But it's also the safest place for him to be. There are Order members here, he could live in Gryffindor tower—Ron wouldn't mind him sharing our bedroom, and I don't think Seamus and Dean would, either. We can't explain the whole situation to people, obviously, but I'm sure we can come up with a story, maybe a spell to disguise him--"

"Harry," said Arthur gently, "Muggles can't see Hogwarts."

"Dudley can if Professor McGonagall lets him," said Harry stubbornly. "But Aunt Petunia won't be able to, and Death Eaters aren't going to get in without someone noticing them. It's the safest place, and it means nobody will be put to any inconvenience more than anyone else."

"Oh no," said Severus sarcastically, "nobody at all will be inconvenienced by the presence of your Muggle cousin at Hogwarts, especially not those of us who have to protect him, or come up with his cover story, or maintain the enchantments hiding his true identity, or--"

"Enough, Severus," said Minerva impatiently. "Whether it is inconvenient or not is not the question. It is the feasibility of the plan that I am in doubt about. I think we ought to explore other options."

Kingsley Shacklebolt shifted in his seat, looking around at them with thoughtful eyes. "Harry is right," he said slowly. "I do not believe that there are other options. Minerva, if you agree to let the boy stay at Hogwarts until the end of the term, when Harry will be free to personally stand guard over Grimmauld Place, the Ministry will extend permission for the anti-Muggle wards to be altered."

Minerva looked horrified. "Dudley Dursley at Hogwarts?"

"Only until the end of term," said Harry. "_Please_, Professor."

"But what is he to do?"

"Oh, I don't see that he needs to do anything, Minerva," said Severus coldly. "He certainly is not doing anything now."

"That's not true!" said Harry angrily. "He's learning things. About magic. About everything. And he's—he's there for me."

"Oh, how touching. He's _there_ for Potter. Obviously we must all bend over backwards to accommodate him."

"I said, that is _enough_, Severus," snapped Minerva. "Kingsley, do you really believe there is no other option?"

"None that can be executed within a reasonable time frame. This is merely a temporary solution, of course, but it is the simplest and by far the safest, as Harry has pointed out."

"Arthur, what do you think?"

Arthur shrugged. "I agree with Kingsley. It isn't ideal, of course, but he's safer here than he is nearly anywhere else."

"Percy?"

Percy looked up from his spectacles, which he'd been cleaning with a corner of his robes. His ears went slightly red—apparently he hadn't been expecting to be asked.

"I'd only ask whether the wards can be altered with enough specificity. If he's Petunia Dursley's son, does that mean she'll be able to see the castle if he can?"

"No," admitted Severus grudgingly. "The wards can be set very specifically, if enough effort is taken."

Percy put his glasses back on. "In that case, I agree—Hogwarts is the best option, for now."

"That's settled, then," said Harry, jumping up from his seat. "Professor Snape's been outvoted, hasn't he? When can I go get Dudley?"

"Calm yourself, Potter," snapped Severus. "It takes time to do these things. It will take at least a day or two to alter the wards sufficiently."

Harry scowled. "That's too long. Every second counts right now. We should have gone to get him before we even had this meeting."

"Harry makes a good point," said Minerva tersely. "Severus, I would like you to accompany him to Grimmauld Place to fetch Dudley, and escort them back here. There are Muggle villages close enough at hand that they can spend a day or even a night there if need be, if you are there to guard them."

"With all due respect, I refuse."

"I am not giving you an option, Severus. I have nobody else to spare. I will require you for the last step in changing the wards, but that won't be until late tonight, or possibly even tomorrow. I will contact you when it is time for you to Apparate back. Kingsley, please speak with the Ministry immediately. Arthur, Percy—call Molly. She is the most powerful witch I know, besides myself, and I believe I will require her help."

The room was suddenly a bustle of activity. Even Severus did not bother trying to argue again. The decision made, there wasn't time to fight about it. In his heart of hearts, he had to accept that it _was_ the most reasonable option, by far. He merely argued out of habit, or perhaps out of resentment for the fact that it was Petunia's son they were making such effort to protect. He had very few good feelings for Petunia Dursley.

"I must assemble the Heads of House," Minerva was saying. She had risen from her seat and drawn her wand. "Arthur, Percy, meet me back here in an hour. Severus, Harry, go to Grimmauld Place immediately. Don't bother walking to the Apparition point. Use the Floo. I'll ward it behind you, you'll need to Apparate when you return. Await my Patronus—I'll send it when it's time for you to come back and help me enact the final changes."

0 0 0

Ron, Hermione and Ginny were just returning from Defense Against the Dark Arts (substitute-taught by Professor Sinistra, to general surprise) when Harry burst through the portrait hole into the Common Room. 

"Can't stop," he gasped, running past them. "Need my cloak."

They stopped him when he was returning down the stairs, taking them three at a time and going so fast that Hermione was shocked when he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Harry!" exclaimed Ginny, when he and Ron had tumbled to the floor after Ron's clumsy but successful attempt to stop him. "What's going on?"

"I can't explain in here," said Harry, looking around significantly at the few other students who were in the Common Room. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper, and said: "We're going to get Dudley from Grimmauld Place. Snape says he saw Aunt Petunia in Knockturn Alley. I don't see how he could have, but we're not taking a chance."

"You're bringing him _here_?" said Ron, shocked.

"Yeah," answered Harry, already on his feet again, and looking anxiously towards the door.

"Excellent!"

"Yeah, it is, only I have to go right now. Snape's waiting for me."

Ginny brushed some dirt off his back, where he'd landed when he and Ron fell. "When will you be back, Harry?"

"Tomorrow, probably. They need time to change the wards. I've got to go, Ginny. _Really_. I'll see you all later."

And, without another word, he was out the door.

0 0 0

As soon as Harry returned with his cloak, they stepped through the fire without another word to one another.

Severus went first. Dudley was sitting in the library when they arrived, and he looked up, surprised.

"I didn't expect to see you, Professor Snape."

"I should hope not," he said irritably. "Nor did I expect to be forced to see you, Dursley, but we cannot all be fortune's favorites."

A moment later, the fire flared and Harry stumbled forward out of the fireplace. "Dudley," he gasped, "you're going to Hogwarts!"

"What?" exclaimed Dudley, jumping up. "Really? When? Why?"

"Now!" said Harry. "We're here to get you now. I finally got Professor McGonagall to agree to it."

"Brilliant! Why?"

"We—er—" for a moment, Harry looked less enthusiastic "—we got some news about your mum. The Order's afraid they might try to use her to get to you."

"Is she all right?"

Harry, rather than answering, glanced at Severus, who shrugged. "I am the one who saw her, and she did not appear to be in ill health."

"So, she's okay?"

"Sure," said Harry bracingly, "they're not going to hurt her as long as they haven't got me, and they're not going to be getting me anytime soon. The Order's on it, Dud, they'll get her out of it in no time."

"Ah," said Dudley. "That's a good point."

Severus looked at him in disbelief, but apparently the boy had watched so many insipid Muggle action films that he really did believe that the 'bad guys' would not do anything to her as long as she remained useful to them. He clearly had very little real-life experience with villains, especially those of Death Eater caliber.

"Let's get your stuff, Dudley," said Harry, tugging his cousin's arm. Dudley, apparently more excited about Hogwarts than he was seriously concerned for his mother, jumped to his feet, and the two boys ran from the room.

Severus listened to the thundering of their footsteps on the stairs, and then selected a book from the library shelves and sat down to read until they returned.

It took only a half-hour or so for them to finish packing, and when they returned, Harry was levitating a compact little trunk behind them, one that Severus recognized as having belonged to Regulus Black. He and Regulus had been friendly at one time, and Severus couldn't begin to imagine how he'd have felt about Harry Potter's Muggle cousin using his school trunk to transport his Muggle things to Hogwarts.

Still, it was hardly a relevant question at the moment. They could not Floo, so it would have to be some other form of travel. Apparition with a large trunk was not beyond Severus, but it would require either multiple trips, or trusting Harry to Apparate separately with Dudley.

He looked appraisingly at Harry. The truth was, he was not unintelligent. Being Lily's son was an advantage in that area, he supposed, as did being best friends with Hermione.

"Potter, you will strengthen the wards around the house—if you know how to do so."

Harry nodded, looking somewhat offended at the insinuation that he didn't.

Severus ignored him. "I will journey to the Hogwarts Apparition point with Dursley's trunk. You and Dursley will meet me there, by means of Side-Along Apparition. We will deposit the trunk at Hogwarts, and then we will adjourn to a Muggle village to await the alteration of the wards."

"Why does it take so long?" asked Dudley curiously.

Severus frowned repressively. "Because Muggles are not intended to be at Hogwarts, and to allow one in takes a great deal of work. Enchantments and spells must be performed not only by the Headmistress and Deputy Headmaster, but by each of the Heads of House, and by at least one father and at least one mother of a student. That will be the Weasleys," he added, for the benefit of nobody in particular. "I will be leaving you shortly before the alteration is finalized, to play my part in changing the wards."

"Cool," said Dudley, fascinated.

"Hardly," snapped Severus. "Potter, ward your house. I will be waiting."

Without another word, he grabbed the trunk and Disapparated.

It took them another five minutes to arrive after he got there. It was not yet dark out, and Severus waved his wand at the trunk, raising it into the air again. He could see the castle, looming on the horizon and looking, in spite of all its dreariness in the foggy twilight, like a warm, comforting beacon of home. Hermione was waiting inside, if not for him, then at least near him. The thought warmed him pleasantly, and he looked forward to his return.

"Potter, you will wait with Dursley while I bring his trunk up to the school. Cover yourselves both with the Invisibility Cloak while you wait, and for Merlin's sake, if you see anyone, _do not reveal yourselves_."

"I thought you said it would take until tomorrow to change the wards," said Dudley, staring over Severus' shoulder with a strange expression on his face.

Severus blinked. "It will," he said, confused.

"Only it hasn't," said Dudley, pointing directly at the school. "Unless your ruddy great castle is camouflaged to look like some _other_ ruddy great castle."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Just to clear things up before any of you ask: no, the wards have NOT been changed all the way yet. Yes, that DOES mean that Dudley can see the castle in spite of them. Yes, I WILL explain why at some point, but I don't promise that it will be in chapter 53. 

Hugs especially to RenitaLeandra, for whom this chapter was written over the space of 3 hours, because she has been having a bad day.

And many hugs also to all my readers and reviewers and various encouragers and commenters. You are all lovely. There will be more as soon as I can provide it.


	53. I Burn, I Pine, I Perish

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 53: I Burn, I Pine, I Perish**

* * *

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Harry, looking as baffled as Severus felt, and staring (as they all were) up at the castle, asked the obvious question. 

"Dudley," he said slowly, "what in the name of Merlin's bollocks are you talking about?"

"The castle," said Dudley. "It's your school, yeah?"

"You cannot see the castle," said Severus testily. "I assume that you mean you see a ruin."

Dudley shot an annoyed look at him, displaying not a little of the spoiled child in his expression. "No, I don't. I see a _castle_. I know what castles look like, and I know what ruins look like. Mum and dad dragged me off to see all sorts on a vacation one year. Harry, didn't they?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea, Dud. If you see the castle, what's it look like?"

Dudley squinted up at the castle. "Well, I can't see _all_ of it. I mean, it's far away and all. But it's got towers, and they definitely aren't ruined." He reached out and pointed towards the Quidditch pitch. "And there's some sort of sports field over there, and it looks like there are people on brooms flying around over it. And owls are flying bloody everywhere around that one tower there."

"Mail," said Severus automatically. "But this proves nothing. It could all be merely a recounting of Potter's description of the castle."

"Why would I set something up like that?" asked Harry angrily. "I want to get him inside, not lost in a ruin."

"Very well," snapped Severus. "We shall take this to the Headmistress."

0 0 0

Hermione was just leaving the Great Hall when she saw the three of them enter the castle. "Harry! You said you wouldn't be back until tomorrow!"

"Yeah, I know," said Harry enthusiastically, "but it turns out that Dud can already see Hogwarts, so we got to come back earlier than I thought."

The implications of this seemed to have escaped Harry, but the same could not be said for Hermione. She glanced at Professor Snape to see his reaction. There was a particularly grim look on his face, and she gathered from it that he was just as aware as she of what it might mean that Dudley could see the castle.

Perhaps it was the tension radiating from him that suddenly filled her with such anxiety and concern.

"That shouldn't be possible though, Harry," she said seriously. "Muggles can't see—"

"Can't see Hogwarts," said Harry quickly. "Yeah, I know. I'm sure there's an explanation to that, though."

"Precisely why it is imperative that we see the Headmistress at once, Potter," said Professor Snape, before Harry could say any more. "This is hardly the moment to chat about your cousin's visionary abilities. Miss Granger, if you would be so kind, see to it that a House-Elf removes this trunk to my office for… testing."

0 0 0

"Severus!" exclaimed Minerva, as he entered her office. "What are you doing here? Has something—"

By her sudden, shocked silence, Severus knew that Dudley Dursley had entered the room. For a moment, silence reigned. Then Dudley cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Hullo, Professor McGonagall," he said politely.

"Yes. Sit down, Dursley," she answered, staring at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Dudley can see the castle!" burst out Harry unnecessarily, apparently unable to contain himself any longer.

Minerva frowned at him. "Obviously. Severus?"

Severus stepped forward. "I have directed his things to be sent to my office for examination, but have not yet had any opportunity to examine the boy himself."

"Examine him for what?" asked Harry immediately.

Severus curled his lip into a sneer. "Out, Potter."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to leave."

"You can't just throw me out!"

"As a matter of fact," said Minerva irritably, "he has the authority to do just that, Potter, and I stand behind him. Out. Your cousin will be sent to join you when we have finished questioning him."

Harry looked from Minerva to Severus indignantly. "Questioning him about what?"

Severus' patience began to wear thin. He grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him from the room.

"Your cousin is a _Muggle_, Potter," he snarled, as soon as the door closed behind them. "As such, it should be impossible for him to see Hogwarts at all."

"He could be a squib!" protested Harry, looking defensive.

Severus scowled as, yet again, Potter displayed his trademark ignorance. If even seven years at Hogwarts had not removed it from him, it was clearly time to give up hoping that anything could—but he still felt obligated to explain. "Squibs are non-magical children of_ magical_ parents, boy," he said sourly. "And if," he added, with all the disdain that he could muster, "you are seriously suggesting that Petunia and Vernon Dursley were a witch and wizard, your theory is not only impossible, it is laughable."

"Oh," said Harry stupidly, blanching.

"Exactly, Potter," he snapped, his last vestige of patience disappearing completely. "That leaves only limited options. The simplest, and most likely, is that the person in the office with Headmistress McGonagall is not your cousin at all. If he is not, you must assume he is a magical person—whether a Death Eater, or another witch or wizard being controlled by the Imperius curse—who has taken the Polyjuice Potion, or been transfigured or charmed to resemble your cousin. The less likely, and far more serious, possibility is that the anti-Muggle wards that guard this school have ceased to be effective. Surely even you can comprehend the seriousness of either situation."

"Yes, sir," mumbled Harry.

Severus was on the point of sending Harry away without any further palaver, when something stopped him. He had left Hermione on her own, and given her a task to do on his behalf. Furthermore, the task involved summoning and ordering about a House-Elf. If she had any brains or practicality, she would simply have done it, but he was not entirely sure that she had either, in anything other than the purest academic sense.

Minerva and Dudley were waiting for him behind the closed door of her office. Severus could not go and find Hermione himself, and so he had only one way to reassure himself that she was being looked after, as little as he liked it.

"Go and find Miss Granger, and ensure that she has successfully removed your supposed cousin's things to my office," he snapped.

Harry went.

0 0 0

"I didn't even think about it," said Harry disconsolately.

Hermione, as Harry had apparently guessed she would, had opted to move the trunk herself, rather than importune a House-Elf. She had managed to drag it nearly halfway to Professor Snape's office before Harry found her and, with nothing more than a longsuffering roll of his eyes, levitated the trunk off the ground and joined her on the walk down to the dungeons.

"I tried to tell you," she said, as kindly as she could. It took some effort, in the face of how stupid he'd been.

"I'm sure it's him, though. A Death Eater wouldn't be able to impersonate Dudley that well."

Hermione smiled tolerantly at him. "Oh, Harry… just like we shouldn't have been able to impersonate total strangers at the Ministry? That's why Polyjuice Potion is so dangerous and effective, don't you see? We expect people to be who they appear to be."

Harry thrust his chin forward stubbornly. "I don't know. I don't think it's really that easy, when you know someone _really_ well. Snape could never pass himself off as anything even close to you, for instance, even with Polyjuice."

She looked at him quickly, but he didn't seem to be aware that he'd stumbled across a topic so close to her deepest secret. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked carefully, keeping her voice as casual as she could make it be.

Harry blinked. "Only that you two aren't similar at all."

"Oh, I think there are a few things about us that are really similar, actually," said Hermione.

"Barely any," said Harry.

Hermione shrugged and let it go.

0 0 0

Severus re-entered Minerva's office just in time to hear the _crack_ as a House-Elf appeared in the center of the room. Dudley exhibited almost no surprise at her appearance—but then, Harry had a House-Elf at Grimmauld Place, and Dudley had surely seen it numerous times there.

"Winky," said Minerva, her voice grim.

"What is you wishing Winky to do?" asked Winky, whose voice was as servile as any Elf's, but whose face displayed a sullenness to rival Severus himself.

Minerva looked to Severus, who glowered down at Winky. "Go to my private stores and fetch me the bottle of Veritaserum that you will find there. I also wish you to summon Argus Filch to this office. Tell him that I have use for his Probity Probe."

Winky glanced at Minerva, who made no comment. Then, with a sullen little bow, she disappeared.

"Have you called the Heads of House together?"

Minerva nodded, tight-lipped. She did not appear to have taken her eyes off of Dudley since he'd first entered the office, so many minutes before.

Dudley, for his part, seemed to have accepted their suspicion as a matter of course, and was occupying himself by staring at the wall of portraits. Many of the headmasters were staring back at him just as openly, some of them muttering to one another behind their hands. One, very near to the ceiling, bore an uncanny resemblance to the Weasley twins, not least because he was most unashamedly sticking his tongue out at Dudley, who did not seem sure about what the proper reaction should be.

He had just settled for tentatively sticking his tongue out as well, when Winky reappeared with a _crack_, clutching the tiny, crystal vial in both of her hands. Severus relieved her of it, and she disappeared once again, without a word.

"Dursley," said Severus sharply.

Dudley (if it was Dudley) jumped guiltily, and looked away from the portrait of the Weasley ancestor, whoever he might have been. In fact, Severus would not have put it past the Weasley twins to commission portraits of themselves after taking aging potion during the Triwizard Tournament, and then to sneak the portraits into the Headmaster's office, to see if anyone noticed.

Come to think of it, they might not have needed to sneak it in at all. Dumbledore might have been quite happy to simply have it hung on the wall. He gave the portrait a dirty look. It stuck its tongue out at him, too.

"Dursley," he said again, slightly more irritated now.

"Yes?"

Severus held up the vial. "Do you know what this is?"

"Er…"

"Veritaserum, Dursley. A truth potion. Drink enough of this, and not a single secret of yours will be safe from me."

Dudley's eyes grew wide and moved to the vial, but he didn't shrink away. "I reckon I'm not supposed to be able to see all this," he admitted regretfully.

"Not under the current circumstances."

"So you think I'm some sort of spy?"

Severus lifted one eyebrow. "That remains to be seen, Dursley. Come here."

Dudley hesitated. "You're not going to erase my memory, are you?"

"What in Merlin's name would give you such an idea, boy?"

Dudley shuffled his feet and shrugged, a mannerism almost identical to one of Harry's. Severus found it momentarily quite disconcerting.

"I don't know," said Dudley, rather unhappily. "Harry blew up our aunt Marge once, and they erased _her_ memory."

Severus blinked. "Potter did _what_?"

"She said something about his mum—aunt Lily—and he got all quiet, and next thing we knew, she turned into a giant… balloon thingy, and she floated away. Your Ministry people erased her memory."

"The situations can hardly be compared," said Severus sharply, recovering himself. "Stick out your tongue."

"You promise this won't erase my memory? I—if you just let me leave, I won't tell anyone. I've never told before."

"Your memory will remain intact."

"If you _are_ going to erase it, will you tell me what's wrong with that hat, first? How did it get all burnt up? I know this is going to sound really strange, but I think it's _looking_ at me, and I'd at least like to know why, before I forget about it."

Severus scowled at him. "It will not erase your memory, Dursley, although you may wish soon that it would. Now, stick out your tongue, before I remove it from your mouth myself."

Dudley, after another moment of grimacing hesitation, stuck out his tongue. Severus let a few drops of Veritaserum fall onto it, then re-corked the vial and slid it into his pocket. Dudley smacked his lips, and then shrugged.

"Doesn't taste like anything," he said, sounding mildly disappointed.

"It isn't meant to," said Severus coldly.

He let a full minute go by, to be sure that the potion had reached its full efficiency, and then he drew a chair forward, positioning it across from Dudley's. When he sat down, their knees almost touched.

"State your name."

"Vernon Dudley Dursley, junior," said Dudley immediately.

"That is your given birth name?"

"Yeah."

"Have you ever been known by any other name?"

"Dud, Dudders, Diddums, Dinky Diddums, Dinky-Dink, Ickle Duddykins, Duddleboo, Ickle Deedee, Big D—"

"Yes, thank you," said Minerva hastily, "that's enough, Dursley."

"Are you a wizard?"

"No," said Dudley. Then he blinked. "Did you think I might be?"

Severus ignored the question. "Are you a squib?"

"What, like a firework?"

Behind them, Minerva seemed to get something stuck in her throat, and she cleared it very loudly, coughing several times. Severus scowled over his shoulder at her. She wiped her eyes and waved her hand for him to continue.

"Are you a non-magical member of a magical family?"

"Well, yes," said Dudley, looking confused. "Harry's family."

"Are either of your _parents_ capable of performing magic?"

Dudley snorted. "No."

"Have you ever taken the Polyjuice Potion?"

"Nope. Harry reckons it tastes awful, though. Is that true?"

Again, Severus ignored the question. "Have you ever been transfigured?"

"Er—Hagrid gave me a tail, once."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He said he was trying to turn me into a pig, but it didn't work. Mum and dad took me to London for surgery."

Severus wondered how Hagrid had got away with _that_ particular bit of magic in front of Muggles, but doubted that he'd learn the answer by asking Dudley.

"Have you met with any Death Eaters since taking up residence in the magical world?"

Dudley appeared to struggle for a moment, going rather red in the face. "Only you," he finally muttered, the bright crimson flush on his cheeks spreading up his forehead and into his short, white-blond hair.

"Very funny, Dursley," snarled Severus. "I suppose your _cousin_ mentioned that, did he? I'm not surprised. "Are you under the Imperius curse?"

"No."

"Have you had anything to eat or drink recently given to you by a source unfamiliar to you?"

"Nobody's given me anything to eat or drink, except for Kreacher."

"Is there any magical contraband inside of your luggage?"

"I don't know if it's contraband. There's magic stuff in there, though."

"You will tell me what items of magical origin you currently have in your possession at this school, whether on your person, or in your luggage."

Severus ran through every question he could come up with. Then he ran through them again. He had Filch go over Dudley inch by inch with a Probity Probe. They turned up nothing. When he had finally and absolutely convinced himself that there was nothing suspicious about Dudley Dursley in any way, other than his inexplicable ability to see Hogwarts without being magical, he summoned Winky to escort Dudley to the Gryffindor Common Room.

"The Heads of House are waiting for you outside," said Severus.

Minerva, her face white and drawn, opened her eyes and looked at him. "How long do you suppose the wards have been faulty?"

"It cannot have been long, Minerva. The Ministry is vigilant. The Statute--"

"Yes, yes, but who knows if Muggles have seen the castle and simply not told anyone else?"

He sniffed. "Highly unlikely."

"Let them in, Severus. I don't know what to do. Perhaps one of them will have an answer."

0 0 0

"They move," said Dudley hesitantly, staring up at the staircases.

"It's magic, Dud. I told you," said Harry.

"Yeah, I know. How d'you tell which one does what, and when?"

Harry shrugged. "Most of it gets predictable, after a while. They almost all have some sort of pattern to them."

"Almost?"

Hermione pointed upwards. "That one, you never know about. I'm pretty sure that on the second Thursday of every month, every fifth step turns into a trick one."

All four of the boys looked at her incredulously.

"How'd you figure that out, Hermione? We've been here just as long as you have, and we didn't," said Ron, awed.

"I just paid attention," said Hermione, feeling her cheeks grow a bit warmer.

"Come on, D," said Harry suddenly. "Let me show you where we found the three-headed dog in our first year!"

"Good old Fluffy," said Ron, snickering. He, Harry and Neville took off at a run, taking the stairs three at a time and laughing with each other. Dudley, who was much less sure on the steps, followed cautiously behind. Hermione lingered with him, occasionally warning him away from various tricks and pitfalls.

"There wasn't really a three-headed dog, was there?" asked Dudley, as they neared their destination.

"Oh, yes, there was," said Hermione absently, "but that wasn't the really hard bit."

"What was?"

She shrugged, jumping across a gap between one landing and another. "I guess there were different things that were hard for each of us. Ron's challenge was the giant Wizard's Chess set. Harry's was Voldemort, of course. Mine was Professor Snape's logic puzzle."

"Voldemort was _here_?"

"Well, he went to school here," she answered. They'd nearly caught up to the boys, now. "Decades ago, of course. And Professor Dumbledore had something hidden here that he wanted, guarded behind all sorts of obstacles, you see."

"Like the dog?"

"That was one of them… and the puzzle."

"Snape's?"

His name set her mind wandering back to the questions that she'd been mulling over constantly. Did she really want an apprenticeship? Was she willing to tie herself to him legally as well as spiritually for the next eighteen months? If she didn't, how would things be, if she left?

"Yes," she said slowly, "Professor Snape's."

"You solved that one, yeah?"

She shrugged faintly, tugging the door open. Harry, Neville and Ron were laughing on the other side. "I solved it."

"Snape's a nutter," said Dudley in a tone more reverent than critical. The other boys looked up.

"What about Snape?" asked Harry curiously.

"I think he was really disappointed I turned out to just be me, and not some sort of spy sent to kill everyone."

"Sounds like him," said Ron disdainfully.

"Shut up, Ron," snapped Hermione. "Dudley, I'm happy you're here, I really am, but it's really bad that you can see the school. Who knows what other things could have gone wrong with the wards?"

0 0 0

Severus, Minerva, Filius, Horace, Pomona, and Trelawney sat in a circle. Nobody spoke, although Severus and Trelawney glared at each other occasionally, wallowing in a longstanding mutual loathing.

"I don't know, I don't know," said Flitwick gravely, turning his wand in his fingers. "The anti-Muggle wards _appear_ to be intact."

"Is it possible that you missed something about the boy, Severus?" asked Pomona cautiously. "Some sort of enchantment, or curse?"

"It is not. I have questioned him extensively, he has been examined by Argus Filch, and I myself have taken the opportunity to search and examine his luggage. I am confident that it is the real, uninfluenced Dudley Dursley."

"No chance that he's perhaps magical himself, and that his parents refused to allow him to attend school?"

"I checked the records," said Minerva immediately. "His name was never down for admission—or, if it was, it was completely removed, with no trace left behind. That doesn't happen when a student merely declines to attend."

"No chance of magical parentage?"

Minerva snorted. Severus frowned, a sudden, very unpleasant thought making itself known to him.

"You've thought of something, Severus?" squeaked Flitwick. "Do not keep us in the dark!"

"It is… distantly possible that the boy might have one magical parent," he said reluctantly. "I believe it is _most_ unlikely," he hastened to add, "but it might behoove us to perform a few tests."

"What on earth--" began Minerva, but she was interrupted by the soft noise of someone clearing his throat over their heads.

"If I may," said Albus Dumbledore's portrait softly, "interrupt for just one moment. Dudley Dursley is most certainly the legitimate child of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. You need perform no tests."

"How do you know that?" snapped Severus.

Dumbledore spread his hands out in a gesture rather like a shrug. "Because I performed them myself, Severus. I could not run the risk of allowing an illegitimate son of Lucius Malfoy to be raised in the same house as Harry Potter."

"_Lucius Malfoy_?" repeated Minerva, aghast. "Lucius Malfoy and—and_ her_? Dumbledore, you're raving."

"I most certainly am not," said Dumbledore, smiling calmly, "as Severus can confirm. However, it is certainly a helpful idea to have stumbled across, in that it ought to lead you on to something closer to the truth."

"Closer to the truth?" repeated Slughorn, looking confused. "What do you mean?"

"Something to do with his parents?" asked Sprout slowly.

Dumbledore beamed at them, and nodded.

"With his mother?" asked Severus, narrowing his eyes. Again, the nod. Severus frowned. "Albus, we haven't time for this sort of guessing game. Do you know why Dursley can see Hogwarts?"

"I do."

"Tell us!" cried Minerva. "For Merlin's sake, Albus, I wish you would simply come out and say these things at the beginning."

Dumbledore's painted eyes twinkled merrily. "It would not have made a whit of difference if I had. Severus would still have insisted on all of the tests and precautions that you have now got through with the tedium of taking. Besides, I cannot tell you."

"Why not?"

Again, Dumbledore shrugged. "I am bound not to. You will need to go to the source, and ask his mother. And keep checking the wards. You can never be too careful."

0 0 0

"I don't know if I should do it or not, Neville," said Hermione despairingly. A good twenty paces ahead, Harry, Ron, and Dudley were making their way to Hagrid's.

Neville bent over and plucked a blade of new spring grass, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. "Do you want to be a Potions Mistress?"

"If things keep on as they have, I don't have much choice. Potions is the only thing I can really still _do_, especially once it's time to move on into the real world, where there aren't sympathetic professors to pretend that proper wand movements are the same as doing magic."

"You've got just as much right to be here as the rest of us, Hermione," said Neville.

She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand, looking out towards Hagrid's hut. "Be that as it may, it feels a bit of a farce to be getting marks for nothing but useless wand-waving. If that's all that we're learning, they might as well open Hogwarts up for Muggles and squibs, too."

"You aren't a Muggle _or_ a squib. The question really is whether this is what you actually want to do, Hermione."

"I like it. I think it _is_ what I want to do."

"Well, if you want to be a Potions Mistress, you'll never get a better opportunity than studying with Snape, and he almost never offers apprenticeships."

"So, you think I should do it?"

He gave her a small smile. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Do you think the—the enchantment will make a difference?"

Neville stopped walking. It took Hermione a moment to realize that he had, and to stop herself. She turned back to look at him, but his face was expressionless.

"I think that it will help you, if it changes anything," he said, very slowly. "Mind-melding with a Potions Master is probably a good way to learn the art."

"It isn't mind-melding, Neville, it's--"

"I know what it is."

Hermione took a deep breath, and straightened up a bit. "All right, then. I'll do it. It will be a wonderful learning experience, of course. And we'll have such fun, being apprentices together, still at Hogwarts."

Again, he smiled faintly at her. "Just don't fall in love with him."

Hermione didn't answer. They resumed walking, Neville whistling softly through his teeth, and Hermione wondering why it was that everybody kept bringing up the subject of love and Professor Snape. Surely, nobody thought that she was in love with him, did they? Or, stranger yet, that he was in love with _her_?

She frowned, stepping through the door to Hagrid's as Neville held it open for her, and resolving to mull the matter over. Was she missing something? Did everyone else see something about the two of them that she was blind to?

The thought of a man like Professor Snape being in love with her was so flattering as to be solidly within the realm of insanity. Oh, he was acerbic and frightening, but he was brilliant and brave, a war hero, and—well, they certainly had a great deal in common. It was a fantasy, a complete fantasy, but the thought gave her a pleasant, warm feeling. If she was going to spend time imagining things, she could certainly think of worse things to imagine than a love affair between herself and Professor Snape.

0 0 0

"I've considered your offer, sir," said Hermione, immediately after she entered the room on Friday.

Severus ignored the sudden clench of anxiety in his stomach and simply set down his quill on the desk, looking up at her calmly. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I accept."

The clenching sensation relaxed a little bit, though he gave no outward sign that he was pleased. Instead, he frowned at her. "You are confident that you have thoroughly considered all the implications and ramifications of this decision?"

"I am."

"You are willing to make the Unbreakable Vow?" She flinched at that, and he smiled coldly. "Miss Granger, surely in all of your vast reading, you studied the various forms of apprenticeship? I will accept nothing less than total commitment, as you should have anticipated."

"That's the ancient ritual, I thought you'd—I thought that you'd use something… more modern," she said, in a small voice.

"Clearly, you were mistaken. I told you a moment ago, I will not accept an apprentice who is less than completely committed to the apprenticeship. I assure you, however, that the terms of the Vow will not be such as to put your life at risk easily, unless you are an utter fool."

He could see her jaw flex and jut forward slightly as she gritted her teeth, and her posture straightened somewhat. "Of course I'll still do it. I was just surprised for a minute."

He regarded her for a long moment as he tried to decide his feelings on the matter. It would be a benefit to him to have such a capable assistant. He could let her mark his papers, at least for first and second years. She would aid him in his research, and most certainly if she continued the way that she was, she'd be a credit to his name when she completed her studies and went off on her own.

At that thought, he paused. This would keep her from going off on her own for quite some time. It would certainly hold her near him long enough for him to decide how best to deal with the fact that she would _not_ always be so conveniently and pleasantly placed.

At some point, he would need to allow her to spend some extended time away, simply so he could test his theory that it would be insufferable for both after a while.

Now, however, he could be assured that there was time to give those thoughts the care and attention they deserved. He nodded curtly.

"Very well, Miss Granger." He reached into a desk drawer and removed a thick sheaf of parchment. "You see here the final examination for your seventh-year level Potions class. Take it. _Take it_, girl. I will not accept an apprentice who cannot listen to simple directions. Leave your things beside my desk where you will not have access to them without attracting my notice, and then you may sit where you choose."

She paled. "I'm to have my final examination right now?"

"Five points to Gryffindor for your astuteness, Miss Granger."

"But I haven't studied!"

He doubted that very much indeed, but he didn't say so. Instead, he simply shrugged, and removed his quill from its inkwell, preparing to return to his endless marking. "Then you will have to cope with being tested on your actual knowledge, rather than the capacity of your short-term memory. I trust that you will survive the ordeal with your limbs and major organs intact."

He thought she might protest again, but although her forehead was as creased with worry as an old woman's, she said nothing. She simply took the examination, selected two quills and an inkwell, and took her seat.

Only when he was sure that she was completely engrossed in her exam did he allow himself to glance up at her through his hair for a moment, and to smile to himself. He could ignore her stress—she was always stressed, as was he. It was enough for him to know that she was physically safe and well, and sitting where he could see her, should he choose to look. Resuming his marking with only half of his attention this time, he devoted the other half to simply enjoying the quiet atmosphere of the room, and the way that their heads bent over their respective parchments so similarly.

They passed the hour together that way, the scratching of their quills the only sound in the room.

0 0 0

"Harry!" shouted Hermione, when it became obvious that quieter protestations were doomed to failure.

The riot of sound that had, up until that moment, filled the Common Room suddenly died down into nearly nothing, and dozens of eyes fixed themselves on her.

"Er—yes?" asked Harry sheepishly.

"It may be a Saturday night," she said acidly, "but _some_ of us are trying to study."

"We weren't being _that_ loud," protested Seamus.

She scowled at him. "Don't you try to tell me that, Seamus Finnegan. The walls at the top of the tower were shaking."

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," said Dudley, who was sitting on the floor with Ron, and a small crowd of others. They appeared to be in the process of recreating a Quidditch match, Ron having charmed Wizard Chessmen and Gobstones to fly through the air, above a miniature Quidditch pitch that a second-year had built. "There's nothing wrong with relaxing a little bit."

"Not for _you_, maybe," she snapped, "but the rest of us have NEWTs to prepare for!"

"You're right," mumbled Harry. "She's right. Let's quiet it down, you lot, all right? People are studying."

Satisfied, Hermione smiled at her friends, and turned to go back to her room. As she put her foot on the first step, she heard one of the younger students mutter to another: "As if _she's_ going to be sitting the NEWTs anyway. They'll laugh her out of the room."

She made it all the way up to her bed, and even managed to get the curtains closed before she started to cry.

0 0 0

Severus opened the door to the Hospital Wing, slinking through it as unobtrusively as he could and closing it behind him. Several days had passed since Hermione had accepted his apprenticeship offer, and he still hadn't seen Minerva about finalizing it. By tomorrow—Monday—Hermione and Minerva would both be insisting upon finalizing it, and Severus felt that he needed someone to talk to beforehand.

"Hello, Severus," said Poppy, without turning around.

"I need to speak with you."

She opened the door to her office and walked in, leaving him to follow. "I thought that you might. Minerva told me about the apprenticeship."

He closed the door behind him. "It has not been finalized."

"Didn't she accept? Sit down, I've got a brand new tin of biscuits. Your favorite."

He curled his lip. "I do not like biscuits."

"You always say that, and then you always eat more than your fair share."

"Preposterous."

"I wholeheartedly agree. If you don't like biscuits, I wish you'd leave more of them for those of us who do. Did she accept your offer?"

He sat down slowly, accepting a biscuit from the proffered tin and taking a bite. He chewed meditatively for a few moments, not answering until he had savored the biscuit, swallowed it, and licked every last morsel from his teeth. "Yes, she accepted it."

"Then you can hardly withdraw it, which I assume is what you now want to do."

He pressed the pads of his fingers together. "Upon further reflection, I believe the apprenticeship would be a poor fit for her, after all. She is too... flighty."

Poppy helped herself to several biscuits as well, and settled comfortably into her chair. "Flighty? Hermione Granger is many things, but don't insult my intelligence by attempting to convince me that she's flighty. She's the most serious, earnest student you've ever had, and you know it's the truth."

Severus slumped in his seat dejectedly. "Poppy, you know nothing about it."

"Brew yourself an antidepressant, Severus. This maudlin self-pity is irritating. I liked you better when you had some spark."

He shrugged. "I concede your point."

She blinked, her mouth opening slightly. He expected her to speak, but she said nothing. She stared at him for so long that he actually squirmed, although it only happened once before he noticed what he was doing and put an abrupt stop to it. Adult men did not squirm, especially when they were named Severus Snape, no matter whose scrutiny they were facing.

"Close your mouth, woman," he finally snapped. "You look ridiculous."

She narrowed her eyes. "Should I be examining you for signs of being under the Imperius curse, Severus? This is most unlike you. What are you about, agreeing with me, and not even putting up an argument?"

He looked away, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not Imperius. I think—Poppy, I believe I... care for her."

"Care for her?"

He thought of the many moments and stolen glimpses of her that he'd snatched since his first drastic realization of his feelings. When the last barrier had finally broken down, when he had admitted what they really were, his feelings had grown exponentially stronger, until there was no denying now that he—

"Perhaps that is too strong a word," he said uncomfortably. "I spoke too hastily."

"Is there something you wish to tell me, Severus?"

"That you sound unpleasantly like Albus Dumbledore when you ask that question."

"Mm, yes, it was a favorite of his, wasn't it?"

He crumbled the biscuit up in his fist, and then spread his hand wide open, tracing the fingertip of his other hand over the crumbs. "There is nothing I _wish_ to tell you," he muttered, with complete truthfulness.

She smiled ruefully at him, touching the tip of her wand to the pile of crumbs in his palm. "_Evanesco_. I'm sure there isn't, my dear, but it is high time you actually confided in your chosen confidante."

"I have already confessed that I... might have developed a level of regard for her beyond the mere respect that a teacher feels for an exceptional student."

"Ah, you are prepared to admit, then, that she is exceptional?"

He scowled at her through his hair, which inevitably ended up falling in his face during these conversations. He blamed it on the fact that Poppy's chair was so much lower than his. He always had to look down at her. "I never said that she was not."

"You said she was flighty."

"Exceptional students can be flighty."

"You have never cared for flighty women, Severus."

He closed his eyes, a jolt of adrenaline making his heart jerk nervously out of rhythm. "She is not a woman."

Poppy snorted. "Nonsense. Of course she is. Have a cup of tea, if you're not going to do anything with my biscuits, besides turning them into food for the birds."

"Tea and biscuits do not solve everything!"

"No, unfortunately, but there is also chocolate to be considered. Between the three, I think we've gone a good deal down the road of fixing the world's problems. I cannot help you, if you will not tell me what it is that needs to be solved."

"I never said I needed your help solving anything," he growled.

"If you did not, you wouldn't have come to me to talk about it." She sighed heavily, fixing his tea and passing him the cup, with a sad look in her eyes. "If only we could return more easily to the days when I could soothe your wounded feelings with a biscuit and a cup of chocolate, my darling boy."

"I am not your darling boy," he said gruffly, feeling his cheeks grow warm.

"You are, and so you will remain until the day I die," she retorted briskly. "Now, tell me what it is that bothers you so about this apprenticeship tangle you've got yourself into."

"I simply do not feel it is a good idea."

"You didn't think so before."

"On the contrary, Poppy, I did think so before. I simply experienced a temporary lapse in judgment that caused me to believe my position had changed."

"Have you considered what will happen when she leaves school at the end of this term?"

"I have." He looked past her, out the window. "Hence the temporary lapse in judgment."

"It will be difficult. I've been studying the enchantment, Severus. I think Dumbledore oversimplified it."

"He did."

"You've studied it as well?"

He shrugged sullenly. "I have not needed to."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "No, I suppose not. Severus, tell me what's troubling you. I'm getting too old for these games."

"I am concerned about the propriety of continuing such a close association for so long with a female student."

"Nonsense. You've had female apprentices before. Taking an apprentice is hardly a recipe for romance, Severus, especially not when you are the master involved."

He inclined his head to her with a self-deprecating smile.

"So, there is something else, I think."

"There is _not_."

"I have a strong suspicion that you are not telling me the entire truth."

He turned his face away from her, miserably aware that he could not evade her questions forever, and that if he had really wished to do so, he would not have sought her out for comfort. "What do you wish to hear from me?"

"Severus," she began gently, "I would be amazed if you were unaffected by this experience. We all would be amazed, and I doubt any of us would hold it against you. There is nothing wrong with feeling an attachment to a woman you are, quite literally, attached to."

He snorted. "I doubt Minerva would agree. _I_ certainly do not agree."

"Minerva is an old maid who spent the better part of her life pining for Albus Dumbledore, and refusing to tell him so," she snapped. "I doubt that you wish to end up as she has."

He scowled, privately feeling that Minerva hoped just as fervently that she would never end up like _he_ had. "I will ask you again, Poppy. What is it that you wish to hear from me?"

"The truth."

Severus jumped to his feet. The very thought of sharing his secret with anyone, even with Poppy, to whom he entrusted every aspect of his life, left him with such a sense of agitation that he could not remain seated.

"What shall I tell you?" he shouted at her, clenching his fists. "That the very limbs of my body quake in her presence? That the mere sight of her across a room undoes me completely? Perhaps you wish to know whether I while away whole hours with fantasies, in which she might possibly offer me some fraction of affection in return for risking my heart, my career, and my life by loving her?"

A small stool sat by the door, and he aimed a vicious kick at it, sending it clattering to the floor. "Very well! It is true! I confess it all, Poppy." He laughed bitterly. "Now you may spit on me, and mock me, and… go away! _Go away!_"

"It's rather poor form to try and remove me from my own office, Severus," said Poppy primly. "Now sit down, and please return to practicing your best imitation of a rational man. You always did have a flair for the dramatic, but that was absurd."

"I do not need your mockery, Poppy."

"Then stop making mockery so easy."

"This is why I did not wish to discuss it with you."

"If you really didn't, then you shouldn't have come to see me. Severus, you're in love with her. I think that's wonderful."

"It is not. Hermione Granger would no more think of loving me than she would have thought of developing a burning passion for Albus Dumbledore, and it is a credit to her judgment that she wouldn't. As much as you might irrationally dream otherwise, that is the truth."

"I disagree."

He buried his head in his hands. "I have no expectations, Poppy. I am content to simply live out the rest of my life… admiring her. I need no compensation for it. Nor is it wonderful."

"You know that there is a very good chance she may come to reciprocate, in time?"

He laughed hollowly. "Don't wish such a cruel fate on her."

"Why did you tell me?"

He shrugged, clenching his hair in his fists. "I told you so that you would understand why I cannot take her as my apprentice."

"I don't see why it's an obstacle. You're an ethical man."

"I am an ethical man. That is why I do not feel I should take her as my apprentice."

"If you are really determined that she won't know, and that she will never reciprocate, I do not see why it is an issue. I know you. You'll go through with it."

"Do you believe me to be such a masochist?"

She stood up, and crossed the short distance between them, laying her hands on his shoulders and squeezing softly. "Honestly? Yes, Severus, I suppose I do."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**Heigh-ho, another chapter done. 

Hoping very much to get lots of writing done before I have to go back to work on Monday, but am recovering from being sick yet again. It's that time of year. Rest assured, all is well in Grindy-land.. just busy.

Loves to all of you!


	54. A Window to the Soul

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 54: A Window to the Soul**

* * *

Four witches and one wizard stood in a low-ceilinged stone room. Early dawn light glowed behind the multicolored panes of a stained glass window. The room was formally hung with four House banners, and each person wore a color corresponding to colors in the banners, although not all four houses were represented. 

A short, somewhat stout witch with white hair stepped forward, swathed in a blue cloak. The other four looked at her--a tall, thin witch in gold, a bespectacled witch in crimson, a shorter and much younger witch in green, and the lone wizard, black hair swept back from his face, in robes of soft, shimmering silver.

"Severus Snape," said the witch in blue, "do you choose to take an apprentice?"

The wizard glanced at the witch in green, his face an unreadable mask. "Madame Pomfrey, I do," he said.

Madame Pomfrey nodded, looking very pleased with his answer. "Hermione Granger, do you wish to apprentice yourself to Severus Snape?"

Hermione, her pale skin and scattering of freckles emphasized and made even more lovely by the dark green of her robes, nodded. "I do."

"As matron of this school, I assert and swear to it that Hermione Granger is fit, both physically and mentally, to become the apprentice of Severus Snape."

The witch in gold lifted her head, looking stern and powerful. "As Headmistress of the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I assert and swear to it that Hermione Granger is a student in good standing at this school, and that she enters into this apprenticeship with my full knowledge and permission."

The fourth witch, blinking owlishly through her large glasses, and clad in robes of crimson, now stepped forward. "As Head of Gryffindor House, I assert and swear to it that Hermione Granger is a student in good standing within my House, and that she is eligible to be joined to Severus Snape as his apprentice."

Snape cleared his throat, his eyes having remained fixed on Hermione immovably ever since he'd first spoken, intense emotion hiding itself behind his carefully shuttered eyelids. "As Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I assert and swear to it that I have no other apprentice, and that it is my right and my desire to take Hermione Granger unto me for that purpose."

The two older witches now joined him in looking to Hermione, who held her head high. "As a student in good standing at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I assert and swear to it that, with the permission of my Headmistress and Head of House, and at the invitation of the Potions Master of this school, I hereby present myself willing to be bound in apprenticeship to Severus Snape, to learn what he chooses to teach me, and in all things to obey him."

All having spoken their parts, the sensation of magical presence began to fill the room. Snape, his eyes never leaving Hermione, turned his head in the Headmistress' direction. "Headmistress," he said, his voice very soft, "do you consent to be our binder?"

"I do," said Professor McGonagall, drawing her wand.

Snape and Hermione knelt, the soft rustle of their robes the only noise in the room as they did so. Still, his eyes never moved from her face. Slowly, she extended her hand to him, and only then did he waver. His gaze flickered downwards, and for a moment, he seemed to freeze. Then, with the air of a man steeling himself for the worst, he drew a breath and took her hand in his. Their fingers twined together in the appropriate grasp, and their eyes met.

Professor McGonagall placed the tip of her wand on their tightly clasped hands, looking from one of them to the other several times.

Snape licked his lips, the pad of his thumb moving restlessly on her hand. "Will you, Hermione Granger, swear to be apprenticed to me for the span of eighteen months, serving me as your sole master and joining yourself to no other during that time?"

"I will."

"Will you give heed to my words and submit yourself to my will when I instruct you to do so?"

"I will."

"Will you devote yourself to learning the art of Potions making, and keep secret unto yourself the mysteries which will be revealed to you?"

"I will."

The three tongues of flame that had wrapped themselves around Snape and Hermione's hands flared suddenly brighter and then faded into nothingness, seeming to be absorbed into their skin. For several moments, nobody spoke, then Snape and Hermione each got slowly to their feet. She'd looked away, but he still had her fixed in that steady, burning gaze.

"I declare the ceremony complete," said Madame Pomfrey, looking at Snape just as intently as he was looking at Hermione. She took Hermione's arm, smiling as she gently led her to the door. "You did a wonderful job, my dear. Very prettily done. Do you need anything, before you go?"

"No," said Hermione, glancing over her shoulder at the others, still standing beneath the stained glass window.

"It's traditional for the new apprentice to leave immediately after the bonding," whispered Madame Pomfrey. "You may go back to your Common Room and change into your everyday robes--but at least for tonight, you'll need to wear the green robes to dinner."

"Thank you," said Hermione, smiling briefly at her.

"Just fulfilling the traditional role of the school matron, my dear. Enjoy your afternoon."

She stood in the doorway and watched while Hermione walked away, escorted by a House-Elf who'd been summoned for that purpose (above her objections). Then, she turned and re-entered the room.

"A lovely ceremony," she said, watching Snape closely.

"She looks terrible in green," was all he said, but his eyes wandered to the door that she had left by, and he rubbed his thumb slowly over the palm of the hand that she had held, a strange look on his face.

0 0 0

"You know what we haven't showed him yet?" said Ron suddenly, as the remains of their dinner magically disappeared and a vast array of desserts materialized on the table.

"There's more?" said Dudley, who looked thoroughly exhausted, after several days of hard exploring.

"There's always more," said Ginny, shaking her head.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "Dumbledore always said even he didn't know anything about it, and if anyone would, you'd think it would be him."

"Have I mentioned how lucky you are, Harry?"

"About a million times since breakfast, Dud."

"He's making up for lost time," said Ron, grinning. "Anyway, what haven't we showed him yet?"

"I'm sure you're eager to tell us," said Ginny dryly, resting her chin on her hand and staring at him in mock anticipation.

Ron swallowed a huge mouthful of pie, waving his hand (still holding a sticky, crumb-covered fork) around in the air. "The Room of Requirement!"

Hermione felt her mouth fall open slightly. Since her nightmares over the summer, she'd got into the habit of avoiding even the thought of the Room of Requirement, and they'd never discussed it since their return to school. A student had _died_ there. They had nearly died there themselves--although, of course, that could be said for many parts of the castle.

The thought of that day brought back the thought that always accompanied it, the one that made her hate herself for her callousness. If only they had left Draco to die that day. If only they had just let him fall back into the fire.

Bloody Harry and Ron and their bloody nobility.

Dudley looked interested. "What's the Room of Requirement?"

"I'd--does it still _work_?" said Harry slowly.

Ginny glanced at Ron and Hermione questioningly. "No idea."

Hermione shrugged, looking over at the Head Table to avoid meeting anyone's eyes. Madame Pomfrey was there, and was saying something to Professor Snape. Something about his face made her feel suddenly sure that, whatever Madame Pomfrey was talking about, Professor Snape was thinking about Hermione, and not his interlocutor.

That unexpected conviction was so strange and unexpected that it distracted her completely from the conversation at the table. She had no idea what they were saying, but she was sure--could it be because of the enchantment?--she was _sure_ that it was her that his mind was occupied with.

She had just had time to experience an intimidated but pleasant sort of tingle down her spine when Harry jabbed her in the side with his elbow, which was rather sharp, and rather painful, and definitely got her attention back.

"Sorry, what?" she said vaguely, realizing that all assembled were apparently waiting for her to give her opinion on something.

"We were wondering," said Ron slowly, with a very patient sort of smile on his face, "whether you could find time in your busy pre-NEWT studying schedule to go to the Room of Requirement with us."

Hermione's gaze wandered from Ron to Neville, who sat too far away to hear what they were discussing, but not, apparently, too far away to notice that she'd been staring at Professor Snape. He was glaring at the Head Table now with a positively murderous look on his face, and she found herself feeling inexplicably guilty.

As it happened, she _could _find time to go to the Room of Requirement, but did not by any means wish to do so. However, saying that would lead to questions that she didn't feel at all like answering, and so she set her jaw, and nodded her head.

"I suppose I can," she said.

"Brilliant. Finish eating so we can go," said Harry immediately.

"You really should be studying too, you know," she said, unable to help herself.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Come on, Hermione. We don't even have to _take _NEWTs if we don't want to. You, Harry and I could have any job we wanted right this minute, just for the asking."

Hermione rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to her food.

When she'd finished eating, they left the Great Hall and headed for the Room of Requirement, all but Hermione and Dudley speculating loudly along the way as to the state that they might find it in. Ron was convinced that it would be entirely unchanged, Harry was unsure, and Ginny, although she said very little, gave them to know that she was quite pessimistic as to the fate of the room. Hermione tended to take Ginny's view of things, but Ron had at least one good argument, which was that it was, after all, a magical castle. Magical castles with incredibly magical rooms that could produce nearly anything out of thin air tended to have some regenerative properties when they were damaged.

"All right," said Harry, when they stood outside the spot where the door should be. "I'm going to walk by three times and thinking about needing to show the room to you, Dud. If the room still works, a door will appear in the wall."

"Cool," breathed Dudley, immediately fixing his eyes on the wall as if expecting it to transform immediately.

Harry began his passes back and forth before the door, the rest of them looking on. Dudley was not the only one who watched with curiosity and anticipation. Nobody knew what would happen when Harry made his third pass. Would the door even appear at all? _Hogwarts, a History _said nothing at all about the Room of Requirement, so all that they knew about it was whatever knowledge they gleaned from personal experience.

Harry passed by the blank spot of wall for the third time, and stopped walking.

Nothing happened.

Then, with painstaking slowness, a very thin, spidery line appeared in the wall , and began to trace out the shape of a door. Slowly, it changed, until instead of gray stone, they stared at a small, very plainly-fashioned door. Dudley looked thrilled. Nobody else spoke. They, like Hermione, were staring at the door with a vague feeling of foreboding.

It was blackened completely, so burnt-looking that Hermione thought it might crumble into pieces if any of them so much as touched it. Here and there were streaks of lighter black, which might almost have been some shade of mahogany at one point in time. Even the door's handle was mangled by fire, twisted into a misshapen lump of metal that Hermione was uncertain if they could even turn.

It proved difficult, but Harry did eventually manage to wrench the door open. It did not crumble in his hands, although it creaked terribly, and they all went through.

An acrid smell, like creosote, stung Hermione's nostrils as she went through the doorway. They stood in a room barely large enough to contain them all. It was empty, and every surface was completely blackened and covered with a thick layer of soot. Their feet crunched when they walked, as if the floor of the room was covered in black snow.

"So," said Dudley, watching their faces as they stared, "is it_ supposed_ to look like this?"

"No," said a soft voice behind them. "It's been destroyed."

Ginny nudged a pile of dead cinders with her toe. "Not _completely_, Neville. We can still get in, at least."

Neville shrugged from the doorway. "That's all you can do. I've tried. You should have told me you were coming up here, I could have saved you the trip. I assumed you already knew."

"Haven't needed the room, " said Harry vaguely, brushing soot off the walls. It fell off in huge clumps, leaving smooth, charred blackness behind.

Neville looked around meditatively. "Me neither, technically," he said, "but I used to like to come and sit in it sometimes. Haven't been able to do that this year."

Hermione wasn't surprised to learn it, and she felt a moment of pity and fierce sympathy for Neville who, for all his tender-heartedness and fierce loyalty, was frequently just as happy (if not happier) to be alone somewhere quiet. No wonder he understood the Room of Requirement so well. He'd probably spent hours and hours more time there than the rest of them had, even before the war.

"What burned it?" asked Dudley.

"Fiendfyre," said Hermione immediately, remembering with a shudder the monsters that had risen from the flames. Dudley gave her a blank look.

"You see," she said, "witches and wizards can conjure up all sorts of fire. Look." She pulled out her wand and produced a little bluebell flame, pleased with herself that it worked. She cupped the flame in her palm, moving her other hand over it as if she were stroking it like a pet. She couldn't do many things, but she could conjure fire (sometimes), and she could brew a potion. Perhaps she wasn't a total loss to magical society. "Anyway, this is relatively harmless. You couldn't touch it without being burnt. Only I can do that, since I'm the one who created it. But I put it in jars and we carry it around to keep our hands warm and things. It's really useful."

"I didn't know you could still conjure fire," said Neville, looking surprised.

"I can't always. Or, I guess I should say that I can't do it in all situations. I can always get a fire under a cauldron, I've found, and I can do it sometimes to keep my hands warm, but it doesn't always work, other times. I don't really understand why not."

"Weird," said Ron, poking at the little flame in her hand with his wand. It shied away and she frowned at him.

"Stop messing around. Like I was saying, Dudley, a lot of witches and wizards can conjure fire, but not all of them conjure the same kinds of fire. Mine is really helpful, but some of them are made just to be destructive. Fiendfyre is the worst of those. It's awful. Really dark magic. I don't know anybody who would dare conjure it. We actually could have used it last year, to--well, to get rid of one of those things we needed to get rid of, but it's far too difficult to control. I wouldn't dream of it."

"So, how did it destroy the Room of Requirement?"

Hermione looked around the crowded little room where they all still stood, remembering. "One of Malfoy's friends cast it. I've got no idea how he even pulled it off. He was stupid. I mean, really thick. Couldn't do a thing. He was--he was trying to kill us, I suppose. It didn't work, obviously, but it destroyed the room."

"Yeah," said Dudley, frowning. "Why do they call it that?"

Everyone looked to Hermione, who barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes at them--she was trying to break herself of the habit. "Well, it's really common knowledge, actually. It's called Fiendfyre because you have to conjure it up from the underworld."

"The underworld?" said Harry skeptically. "Hermione, I didn't expect you, of all people, to believe that when we die, we--"

"_You _of all people, Harry, ought to know by now that there are things about death we don't understand in the slightest. But I don't mean some place you go when you die. I mean the underworld. Honestly, don't you_ ever _read?"

"I read!" said Harry defensively.

"Is this one of those Wizard versus Muggle things again?" asked Ron interestedly. "I thought everyone knew."

"I'd say that means it is, mate," said Harry wryly.

"So what is it, then?" prodded Dudley.

Hermione waited a beat to see if anyone else would answer, but they were all so obviously waiting for her to continue the impromptu lecture that she didn't wait long. "There are three planes to the world. We live on the middle one. It's corporeal, there's magic and non-magic and things, and animals, and all of that. But there's also a netherworld and a--a--well it's usually called the heavenly realm. Occasionally a witch or wizard will visit one of them. I've never heard of anyone who was willing to talk about the heavenly realm. It's supposed to be where people go when they die--_not_ the underworld, Harry."

Harry frowned at her. "So you're saying I went there?"

"I'm not saying anything about it at all," she said sniffily. "I haven't the faintest idea. All I'm saying is that Fiendfyre is called up from the underworld, and it's called Fiendfyre because there are monsters in it."

Dudley looked skeptical. "Monsters?"

"I saw them," said Harry, shaking his head. "Dragons and stuff, made out of flames. So are you saying those were demons or something, Hermione?"

"Fiends," said Hermione, with a shrug. "Nobody really agrees about whether that makes them demons."

"And you knew that all along of course," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "Why didn't you tell us at the time?"

Hermione frowned. "What I told you at the time was that it was Fiendfyre and that I hadn't thought of using it because it was so dangerous and hard to control. I didn't think you wanted the full lecture."

"Thanks, Professor Granger," said Dudley, grinning at her with the air of one who believes he's just given someone a particularly flattering compliment. "Learning stuff from Snape already. Next thing you know, you're going to be teaching his classes for him."

Hermione smiled faintly at him.

0 0 0

"You are quite certain that it is really Dudley Dursley that you retrieved from Grimmauld Place?" asked Kingsley, reaching one hand up and toying with his small golden earring.

"Quite," said Severus. "I examined him myself, at great length. It is most certainly him."

Kingsley frowned. "There is not any record of his mother in any of our offices. You have no idea at all how it happened that he can see the castle?"

"None," said Minerva grimly. "The wards appear to still be in place. We can find no evidence that they were even tampered with. Everything appears to be completely normal, in fact.

"_Appears_," repeated Severus, stressing the syllables sternly.

"I will send a Ministry specialist to examine them. What do you propose to do in the meantime?"

"Allow the boy free run of Hogwarts," said Minerva, with a shrug, "as long as he only leaves the tower in the company of Harry, or one of Harry's friends. That was our intention all along, and I see no reason to deviate from that plan."

"And you say that Dumbledore maintains that the boy's mother can explain?"

She glanced at the currently empty frame of Dumbledore's portrait. "Yes."

"Severus, you say you saw her in Knockturn Alley?"

"I did."

Kingsley frowned. "Surely not, Severus. You must have been mistaken."

"I have known Petunia Dursley since my childhood, Shacklebolt. I know her when I see her."

"I have no free Aurors to send after her. Are you willing to undertake to locate her yourself, Severus? It is imperative that we find her."

Severus frowned. "I do not have the time to devote to such a mission, Kingsley. Surely another member of the Order would be better suited to the task."

"On the contrary," said Minerva, "as you pointed out yourself, you are more likely to recognize her than anybody else is. Besides, there is nobody to spare. Hardly any of us are even in the country, and those who are have already been put on assignment."

"My classes, Minerva--"

"Apparition is nearly instantaneous, Severus. You have many free periods. Get a seventh-year to help with your marking. You have an apprentice now. Surely Miss Granger can mark first and second years' papers. She could probably do it when _she_ was a first year."

He scowled. "It is against my policy to allow my marking to be done by anybody other than myself."

"Against yours, perhaps, but not against mine, and I am giving you an order. If you do not feel that you can complete all of your school duties and give your attention to locating Petunia Dursley, you will have your apprentice help you. She's a member of the Order, and she is there to be an aid to you."

"She is there to learn how to make Potions!"

"She is there," said Minerva, "to learn from you, and to assist you in whatever manner you may require. She knows this. I'm sure she'll be happy to help. We are still at war, Severus. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Put in a little effort, please."

0 0 0

Finally satisfying themselves that there was no more to be done with the Room of Requirement than poke around disappointedly in the ashes, the boys resolved on going down to see Hagrid. Dudley had not yet seen a Hippogriff, and there was universal agreement that he needed to do so at the soonest possible moment. Hermione begged off, saying she really did have to get some studying in. She'd had to spend so much time confined to the Common Room that she was well ahead in her studying, even by her own strict standards. Still, that was no reason to get slack.

Besides, she wanted to be alone. The binding ceremony had been surprisingly draining. The emotion in Professor Snape's eyes had intimidated her, not least because she didn't know what it was--only that it was incredibly strong. She'd attempted to feel it, had even been so bold as to use the connection of touch, but he'd learned how to block her out more completely, and she encountered only the most mundane of feelings.

So she knew that he thought Professor Trelawney looked awful in crimson, that he thought the skin of her right hand was too soft for a Potions apprentice, that he'd been apprenticed in that very same room, and that he found the stone floor as hard and uncomfortable as she did. But, she had no idea what it was that had burned behind his eyes when he stared at her so fixedly.

She wondered if he regretted the apprenticeship agreement. She knew that, at least in some part of herself, she did. She was stuck near him now, at least for a year and a half. He probably regretted agreeing to keep her around. She was a know-it-all who could barely even do magic.

Granted, she could make potions. She could even do it well. But she couldn't shake her sense of inadequacy. She sniffled, her eyes stinging slightly. She wished she could talk to her mum about it, write to her, or Apparate to a Muggle village and call from a phone booth. But she'd never be able to write again, never be able to hear her mother's voice. She was on her own.

She didn't know what made her do it, but she called the House-Elf that had been assigned to her. She didn't like it, but she'd sworn to obey Professor Snape, and he'd insisted that if she went out in the halls, she'd be accompanied by an Elf at the very least.

"Calliope," said Hermione, "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'd like to go to the Hospital Wing."

The Elf, who Professor McGonagall said had recently joined staff after her mistress had died, bowed low. "Miss Granger isn't to apologize. Calliope is happy to take her wherever she wishes to go."

"Er--thanks," said Hermione. "It's just, I wish you didn't have to do anything for me at all."

"Oh, Calliope understands! It is very hard for Miss Granger not to have her magic. The Headmistress is explaining all of this."

"No, I mean, I wish that you could just go free."

Calliope froze, turning her huge eyes on Hermione with a look of fear. "You isn't ought to be talking that way, Miss," she whispered. "House-Elves isn't wanting to be freed."

"I know," said Hermione, wishing her voice didn't sound so petulant. "They've told me. I imagine they've told you stories about me, actually. Don't worry, I'm not going to go about trying to free you without your permission."

"Calliope doesn't imagine Miss would do something like that!" cried the elf, horrified.

"Not anymore," said Hermione wryly, descending the last flight of stairs that led to the Hospital Wing and pushing the doors open.

Madame Pomfrey was making a bed, waving her wand over it so that the sheets magically tightened themselves over the mattress until they fit it like skin. When she heard the doors open, she looked up, and a flash of something crossed her face before she smiled and tucked her wand away.

"Miss Granger," she said brightly. "What seems to be the trouble? Are you ill?"

Hermione shook her head mutely, letting the door swing shut behind her. She suddenly didn't trust herself to speak, now that it came to admitting her feelings to another person, especially someone as motherly as Madame Pomfrey was. Still, what was the matron there for, if not to fulfill the duty of matron?

"I wondered," she said, and then faltered for a moment, biting her lip.

"Yes, dear?"

"I wondered if I could have a Calming Draught."

For a moment, she didn't answer, but instead pursed her lips, studying Hermione thoughtfully. "Yes," she said at length, with a sympathetic smile. "Between studying for your NEWTs and undergoing the apprenticeship ceremony this morning, I'm sure you're feeling quite overwhelmed."

"Well, yes," said Hermione. "But that isn't why. I--it's just my mum and dad," she said in a rush, trying to get all the words out before she choked up. "I miss them so much, and there's so much going on, I just feel so _alone_, and I can't really talk to anyone about it. I don't know what to do, and it's starting to interfere with studying, and I want to be able to focus..." she sniffed loudly. "I don't know why," she said, as she began to cry. "They were always the ones to be proud of my marks."

"Oh, my dear," said Madame Pomfrey, hurrying forward with an extended handkerchief and enveloping her in a warm, motherly hug. "Of course you feel that way. I would never suggest they could be replaced, but so many of us are proud of you, probably more than even I am aware of, and I can think of many."

"I know," sobbed Hermione, "but it isn't the same."

"I know it isn't," said Madame Pomfrey soothingly, stroking Hermione's hair. "But it will get easier. I'm sure you always knew that you might lose loved ones in this war."

"I d-did," she answered, hiccoughing, "but not _them_."

"No," answered Madame Pomfrey sympathetically. "I know."

"I don't know how to cope with it. I don't--I've never--they're the only family I've ever had, you see. I've never done this before."

"I suggest that you come and sit with me and let me make you a cup of tea. I have many years of experience in these things, and I promise you, you'll feel better after a cup of tea and a biscuit."

Hermione sniffled and wiped her nose and eyes on the handkerchief, following docilely into Madame Pomfrey's office and taking the seat that the matron offered her. Soon, she had a cup of tea and a plateful of chocolate biscuits as well, and was nibbling on one doubtfully.

To her surprise, it _did_ help, and far more than she'd expected it to. It appeared to be physiologically impossible to cry and eat a chocolate biscuit at the same time, and the biscuit was so delicious that she gave crying up as a bad job. Except for the occasional loud sniff, she was able (at least as long as she didn't talk) to sit quietly.

"Now," said Madame Pomfrey, passing her a small vial of Calming Draught, "I confess, I'm a little surprised you didn't come to me sooner. Between the enchantment, and your parents' death, I rather expected you before now."

"The enchantment?" repeated Hermione, surprised out of the last of her melancholy.

"Hermione," said Madame Pomfrey with a smile, "I am the Hogwarts matron. Very little goes on that I do not find out about. I've known about the enchantment far longer than you have."

"Oh," said Hermione, feeling stupid.

"Your secret is safe with me, of course. How are you coping?"

"Oh," said Hermione again. "Well... fine, I suppose?"

"I see," said Madame Pomfrey.

"I don't know what else I ought to say."

"Honesty is all I'm looking for. Are you really fine?"

Hermione bit her lip again. "I don't know. I don't know how to tell if I'm fine anymore. Nothing about it is really _bad_. Professor Snape confuses me sometimes, and it's hard to know how I ought to act. Obviously he isn't just my professor, but I can't really treat him as anything else, and that makes things strange."

"Naturally," said Madame Pomfrey, nodding.

"And we--well," she blushed slightly, "sometimes we share thoughts, or dreams, and it's unexpected and I'm always afraid something is going to slip out that I'd rather he didn't see."

The matron smiled faintly. "I'm sure he feels the same way."

"That's bad enough, and then with not having magic, I can't ever be alone. Someone's always got to be there. I _hate_it. I never used to think of myself as someone who liked to be alone, and I don't know if it's because of Professor Snape, or because I'm really like that and I just never knew, but I hate never being alone."

Now that she'd begun talking, all of her anger and frustration and sadness seemed to pour out of her. It kept coming, and she talked, and cried, and ate more biscuits, until finally Madame Pomfrey stood up and smiled at her.

"I think this was a very good conversation," she said pleasantly. "You seem to be feeling much better. And now, may I make a suggestion?"

Hermione nodded.

"I suggest," said Madame Pomfrey, "that you find a room somewhere that isn't being used. Hogwarts has hundreds of them. Have your House-Elf stand outside the door and keep watch, so that you're obeying the rules about not being out unprotected, and then spend some time there alone. I'm sure that even Professor Snape can't object to that, and if he tries, I'll tell him it's a medical necessity. You need a place to be alone and think, and keep yourself calm."

Hermione gave her a rather watery smile, and nodded again. "Thanks, Madame Pomfrey. I'll try that."

"Here's a few more vials of Calming Draught. Come to me when you need more, or if you ever need someone to talk to. I'm always here."

0 0 0

Severus, his face covered by a hood and cast completely into shadow, blended in to Knockturn Alley as if he'd spent his whole life there. He affected a slight limp, and, as he always did when he wandered the seedier areas of Wizarding London, kept his hand on his wand.

His first stop was the Apothecary's shop. The hag that ran it was, as always, behind the counter. Severus didn't even know her name. He had no need and no desire to. For all he knew, she didn't _have_ a name.

"I need information," he said softly, tossing a few Galleons onto the counter.

She picked the coins up, bit one, counted them twice, and slipped them into a pocket. "What?" she rasped.

"A Muggle," he said. "Have you seen one?"

"_Here_?" Her laugh made his ears hurt. "You're mad."

"Not mad. I've got it on good authority that Lucius Malfoy's son is hiding a kidnapped--"

She hissed softly. "I haven't seen no Malfoy, and I haven't seen no Muggle."

"She'd be dressed like a witch, but _you'd_ know better. Thin. Big teeth."

"Ask at Borgin and Burke's. Ask anywhere but here. I haven't seen no Muggle, and I wouldn't let one past the door of my shop if I did." She spit on the floor, leaving a trail of red sputum on her chin. "But if I see one, I might let you know before I eat her."

She leered at him, displaying her four remaining teeth.

"That will not be necessary," said Severus. "I shall check back with you in a few days. Don't eat her. She's worth quite a bit to me."

He slipped out into the alley again. Borgin and Burke's was his next stop. Nobody was there but a young clerk, however, who Severus knew very well would know nothing about it.

He visited taverns and brothels, a shop that sold unregistered wands, and another that dealt in the darker varieties of magical animals. Nobody had heard of a Muggle, or indeed of anybody who matched Petunia's description.

In desperation, he went to The Burrow.

"Molly," he said to the redhead who opened the door. "I need to speak with your son."

"Percy's asleep."

"I do not care. Wake him up. It is quite important."

She looked him over, then stepped aside and let him into the kitchen. "Can I get you anything to eat? Maybe something to drink? It's warming up, finally, but it's quite wet."

"No."

"Are you sure? I'm just taking a cake out of the oven--"

"Thank you, but no. Where is Percy?"

"On the couch in the next room."

He left Molly to her cake, and found Percy, as she'd said, asleep in the next room. A quick jab with his wand was enough to wake the boy up, and in a few moments he was rubbing sleep from his eyes and adjusting his spectacles on his face.

"Professor Snape!" he said, surprised. "What's wrong?"

"I need information, Weasley."

"If I've got it, I'm happy to give it to you."

"A Muggle. Has Draco got one?"

"A Muggle?" repeated Percy, blinking.

"Petunia Dursley has gone missing. She was seen in Knockturn Alley. I want to know who has her. It is imperative that she be found."

"He hasn't said anything about it. He's got a plan, though. There was a meeting last night. I've been sleeping since I got back, and I was going to be reporting to you and Professor McGonagall tonight. He's attacking Hogwarts next week."

Severus stared. "Next week? Attacking _Hogwarts_? Impossible, Weasley. Hogwarts is even better protected than it was a year ago, and Draco's contingent of Death Eaters is far weaker. He'll never succeed."

"He thinks he's found a way to do it. Don't ask me, I don't know what it is. I just know he's rallied every Death Eater he can find, and they're attacking the school next Monday, first period. I think he's gone mad, Professor. He's out to kill you. I'm meant to kill Lee and my family at the same time, and then meet up with them there."

"It is high time you woke up, Weasley, and learned to make reports before you sleep, and not after."

Percy looked abashed. "Yes, sir."

"You will return to Hogwarts with me. Professor McGonagall must be told."

0 0 0

Hermione decided to put Madame Pomfrey's advice into action immediately and so, followed by Calliope, she set off on a fresh exploration of the castle.

It might have been easier with the Marauder's Map, or something similar that would at least give her some idea of where to begin. There were countless doors lining the hallways, but most of them led to storage rooms full of desks, or classrooms that were in use, or study rooms. The few empty rooms she did find seemed too big, or not quiet enough, or too close to major thoroughfares of the school.

She wandered each floor systematically, peeking into any door that seemed likely, but she could find nothing at all that took her fancy. Giving up, she went outside instead. She hadn't seen Professor Snape all day, and it seemed the perfect opportunity to revisit a place that she thought might be perfect--if she could get in there without being caught.

The tree was as she remembered it, and the climb was easy. She might have done it with her eyes closed and not been afraid. She crawled through the little door, and into the room.

The canopy of branches above was just beginning to sprout buds, and a healthy smell of soil filled the room. It was invigorating, and Hermione felt refreshed and awake, as she hadn't done in some time. She liked being in that room. It gave her a sort of energy she didn't find elsewhere.

She touched the books that still lay piled up on the floor, and then picked one up, thumbing through it. It obviously belonged to Professor Snape--an Advanced Muggle Studies textbook, oddly enough--and was very well-thumbed and dog-eared. His cramped, spiky writing filled the margins of every page so thickly that they appeared black, rather than white, and she soon lost herself in them. Every passage or selection from Muggle literature had some insightful comment about it, or simply an underline or an exclamation point, or some other mark that seemed to show an appreciation of beauty or a sound idea.

She spent perhaps an hour there, reading his notes in the text, before recalling herself. Could she make this her haven? It was welcoming, inviting, and felt very safe. Calliope could, and was at that very moment waiting outside, standing guard.

But in some way, it almost felt _too_ pleasant. She didn't know that she could be comfortable here. It felt so much like Professor Snape that she didn't feel comfortable attempting to imprint any of her own personality on it, and wasn't that part of the point? This was his space. It would be wrong to attempt to make it her own. She might be able to sneak in here occasionally, but it was so strongly filled with his presence, that it could not become hers, especially not behind his back. She had a feeling he'd find out.

So she went back to exploring.

Soon, she wound up back in the castle, Calliope still trailing along at her feet like an eager puppy. This time, she didn't try to be methodical. She simply wandered, both with her feet and her mind, paying very little attention to where she went, until she realized that she was in the dungeons.

She was _deep _in the dungeons, well past any of the classrooms that were in regular use. Professor Snape's lab was just behind her, and she imagined his quarters were close by. She found that she liked the dungeons. They were cool and dark and very quiet, far from the rest of the school.

There were fewer doors to try down here, so she tried all of them.

When she found the room, she knew before she even opened the door that it would be what she wanted. There was one large window, which allowed in a quantity of coalescing green light, and a view into the depths of the lake. A low couch sat against one wall, opposite a desk, with a mirror hanging over it, and a bookshelf beside it. The bookshelf was stocked with textbooks, some of which Hermione recognized as being part of the Hogwarts curriculum, and some of which she guessed must have been part of it at some point.

It was perfect. Small and intimate, with a thin, oriental-looking rug in Slytherin colors that kept the chill of the stone floor from seeping up into her feet.

She settled in immediately, sat down at the desk and immediately buried herself in an Arithmancy textbook, memorizing formulae and working problems, although it was a nearly endlessly laborious process to do so with only the minimal magic that was currently hers to command.

After nearly two hours, there was a faint knock at the door. She jumped up, her heart pounding nervously, and opened it. For a minute, she thought she'd imagined the knock, but then there was the noise of a small voice clearing its throat at her feet, and she remembered Calliope.

"Begging your pardon, Miss," said Calliope shyly, "but dinner is in half an hour. Is Miss wishing me to call her when it is time to go eat?"

"Oh!" said Hermione in surprise. "Is it really? Yes, I'm going to study a bit more. Knock again in half an hour, if you don't mind. That would be perfect."

Calliope beamed at her. "Calliope will knock!" She curtsied. "Thank you, Miss!"

The door closed again, Hermione returned to the desk. Before she began to study, though, she glanced into the mirror. Her hair had got untidy, probably during the climb into the tree, and she paused a moment to fix it, before she forgot about it again.

She was staring fixedly into the mirror, trying to deal with a particularly rebellious curl, when it happened. In the reflection, she saw something behind her. Something tall and black.

When she spun around (her heart pounding, and Calliope's name on her lips) she saw nothing. Anxiously, she turned to look in the mirror again. Again, there it was--that dark, shadowy figure, moving behind her.

But there was nothing there. She looked again, to be sure. She even got up and moved through the room, holding her arms out, looking for something invisible. But she found nothing. Defeated, she went and looked in the mirror one more time.

She stared hard, trying to see what it was. Slowly, as she looked, it began to come into focus.

It was Professor Snape. He stood directly behind her, his wand in his hand, his eyes fixed on the mirror with the same burning intensity they had held in the early hours of the morning, when the apprenticeship ceremony had taken place. As she stared at him, he lifted his hand and moved it around her body so that he could gently stroke her cheek, the lines of his face softening somehow, although his expression did not change. She shivered, bringing her hand to her cheek; she could feel nothing there.

He was obviously not really in the room with her, and it was obviously a magic mirror. The question was, what did it show? The image was wavering now, and changing, until she couldn't see her own face at all. Instead, she saw her whole body, her face hidden by her hands, her wand lying useless at her feet. Professor Snape stood before her, shielding her with his body, and fending off a horde of countless, faceless enemies, who were all attempting to get past him to Hermione.

Again, the image changed. He read to her now, soundlessly, out of a Potions text, guiding her hands as she stirred two cauldron at once, lecturing her and explaining patiently as he went.

As she watched, transfixed, she pondered the import of the mirror. She saw only Professor Snape now, standing on a landing and looking down through the moving stairs at Hermione and the boys, watching from afar with a look of fierce protectiveness as the boys began to run away up the stairs, leaving her to walk.

In every scene that the mirror showed her, he was there, protecting her, or teaching her. He always watched her. Was the mirror showing her something true? Something real? Was this why so many people had asked if there was something between them? Now he was gathering her into his arms as she cried, comforting her with a look of awkward helplessness, his long fingers moving over her hair and down her back with an uncertain, protective gesture.

A knock came again on the door, and she jumped guiltily.

"Yes?" she said, when Calliope poked her head through the door.

"Miss is wishing to know when it's time to go and eat. Her friends will be waiting, and she hasn't got her new robes on!"

"Oh, no!" moaned Hermione. "I completely forgot. I'm going to be late now--I'm sure Professor Snape will _love _that."

"Not to worry!" said Calliope, proudly producing the robe. "Calliope has got it, and she will help Miss dress!"

Hermione tried to protest, but the Elf would brook no refusal, and while she was changing her things, it occurred to her to ask if Calliope knew anything about the mirror.

"Ooh, yes," said Calliope, her eyes moving to the mirror for a moment. "It is enchanted!"

"I noticed," said Hermione, doing up the buttons on her left sleeve. "What does it show?"

"A deep truth," said Calliope seriously. "The mirror shows the person closest to you for who they really are."

"What do you mean, for who they really are?"

Calliope straightened the drape of the robes in back, surveying them with a critical eye. "All people has secrets," she said. "Wizards made the mirror many years ago, because they needed to know if their friends were true."

"So, whoever I see in the mirror, it shows me how they really feel about me?"

Calliope nodded and smiled, then stepped back, surveying her handiwork proudly. "Miss looks beautiful in green," she said, satisfied.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Finally done with the chapter! I had a terrible case of Influenza over the week, which is what held this one up. Otherwise it would have been done days ago, but I was busy running fevers and hallucinating and needing to get IVs and things. 

More soon. I've mapped this out with the plan to finish the story by chapter 60, so we are in the home stretch.

Credit to JunoMagic for invaluable help with the mirror concept and several others. :)


	55. Valley of the Shadow

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 55: Valley of the Shadow**

* * *

Monday morning found Severus, Minerva, Kingsley, the Weasleys, and fifteen Aurors waiting to see if anything would happen.

They'd spent the intervening week intelligence-gathering and comparing notes between Severus, Percy, and the Ministry. They kept it from the students –Minerva felt it was unnecessary to inform them, and would only cause panic. Accordingly, it was kept quiet, although Severus was seized with a perverse desire to tell Hermione, who would no doubt be an asset if it really did come to some sort of a skirmish.

Instead of telling her, he spent the week watching her from a distance. With much prodding from Minerva, he'd given her a week off from classes before beginning the rigorous training that would constitute her Potions apprenticeship. It gave her a little rest, and allowed him more free time in which to scour Knockturn Alley and the rest of Wizarding London in search of Petunia Dursley.

There was, however, no sign of her to be found. After a few days, he took to coming back earlier from these fruitless excursions, making use of the stolen minutes to seek Hermione out in the hope of catching a glimpse of her.

He told himself that a glimpse was enough—that it was all he wanted, in fact. The more of them he had, however, the more times he heard her laughter, or caught a few sentences from some impromptu lecture on whatever her friends were discussing at the moment, the more he wanted to see of her. He was jealous of her time and of her company.

He deserved none of it, but oh, how he wanted it. Only a conversation here and there, he told himself. Only a discussion of a Potions journal, or about Order business, and he could retreat again, satisfied.

These and other thoughts of Hermione were what occupied him on Monday morning. He did not entirely believe Draco to be capable of launching any sort of an actual attack on the school.

He had the hour free, and he'd settled into his office with a massive pile of unmarked exams, prepared to spent the next hour being alternately amused and exasperated by students who insisted that a grindylow was a sort of particularly violent French songbird.

0 0 0

"Something's going on," insisted Harry for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. "I'm telling you, those were Aurors."

"What could be going on?" objected Ginny. "If it was anything really serious, they'd be warning students. Besides, we're members of the Order now. They would tell us."

Hermione put down the book she'd been buried in. "Harry's right," she admitted reluctantly. "I think something's wrong."

Ginny frowned, but Harry, encouraged, rummaged in his knapsack, and then produced a much-folded piece of parchment.

"What good is the Map going to do?" asked Ron, peering over at it as Harry spoke the incantation that brought it to life.

"If we can see who's here, maybe we can guess what they're doing," said Harry, spreading the map out on the tabletop and gazing down at it, trailing a finger along the parchment until it rested atop Professor McGonagall's office.

Hermione, who had been plagued for days with restlessness and vague doubts, leaned over, straining to see as well.

"Mum and dad are here!" said Ron, evidently much offended that he hadn't been informed. A moment later, he glanced nervously at Hermione, obviously concerned that he'd put his foot in it by mentioning parents. She ignored him, and the look, still studying the map.

"So's Shacklebolt," pointed out Dudley from over Harry's shoulder. "They couldn't be having an Order meeting, could they?"

"No," said Hermione, who had looked immediately at an entirely different part of the castle. "Professor Snape isn't there. He's in his office. They wouldn't have a meeting without him."

"And it can't be something about the school," said Ginny, looking smug, "Or they'd hardly be discussing it without the Deputy Headmaster."

"I say we go and have a listen," said Dudley promptly. "Harry, what did you do with your Extendable Ears?"

"Don't be daft," said Ginny. "We'd get caught."

"Well," said Dudley, rather crestfallen, "at least we can hang around a little closer in case anything happens, can't we?"

"Definitely Gryffindor," said Harry triumphantly. They'd been debating for several days as to Dudley's House affiliation, were he to be Sorted. Ron had argued for Slytherin, and Ginny and Hermione for Hufflepuff.

"And a credit to him," added Ron, apparently willing to be a good loser if it meant even a vague benefit to Gryffindor.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There are worse things in life than not being a Gryffindor."

"Name one," said Ron immediately.

"She can't," said Harry, without giving her a chance to attempt it.

"Anyway, let's go," said Dudley dismissively. "After all the stuff you've told me about doing here, Harry, I want to see some serious magic."

Harry shoved him. "You've seen lots already."

Dudley shoved him back, smirking. "That didn't count. I mean _real_ magic. You know, like fighting people and things."

Hermione took up her book again, knowing that she was doing so with bad grace, but not caring enough to stop herself. A week of nervous agitation was telling on her. She was beginning to wonder if it was from spending less time than usual with Professor Snape, and that did not bode well for her future. Her mood had long since ceased to be good.

"Have fun doing real magic then," she said coldly. "I hope you'll all excuse me if I stay behind. As I can't do magic of _any_ sort, and I've already seen more than enough of it done in the past, it doesn't sound terribly appealing."

She expected them to protest, but they were all so taken aback by the sudden onslaught of cold temper that none of them remembered to do so. They simply turned and left, which did nothing at all to make her feel better.

It didn't help, either, that, as they walked away, she heard Ron lean over to Dudley and whisper, "You're right, mate. She _has_ started sounding just like him."

She didn't wonder which 'him' it was they were comparing her to.

She didn't look up again until they were gone, and then she noticed that Harry had left the Map behind when Dudley had chivvied them so quickly from the room. She snatched it up, and immediately sought out the same name that had caught her attention before.

Severus Snape.

He was still in his office, but he'd been stationary before. He was pacing now, occasionally stopping next to the door—perhaps to listen for sounds outside, perhaps only by coincidence.

Harry, Ron, Ginny and Dudley were heading directly for Professor McGonagall's office, walking in a tight cluster. Most of the rest of the students and professors were busy in class—Hermione was excused, and her friends, much to her annoyance, had skived off, ostensibly to keep her company.

Carelessly, she began to let the map fall onto the table, when another name caught her eye.

Draco Malfoy was standing in the Entrance Hall. As Hermione watched, other names began to surround him, milling about in the Hall. Many of them, she didn't recognize. A few, she did. Every one of the names that she knew belonged to a Death Eater.

Immediately, her eyes flew to Professor McGonagall's office, expecting to see a flurry of movement, but there was nothing. That worried her. The wards ought to have alerted the Headmistress to the presence of Death Eaters on the grounds well before they made it all the way into the school. Instead, they remained where they were, as if they had no idea at all that the Entrance Hall was filled with homicidal maniacs.

She had to do something, alert someone. Hermione grabbed her wand and the Map, and ran towards the door of the Common Room.

Just before she stepped out into the hallway, she remembered Professor Snape's admonition that she never be unguarded outside of Gryffindor tower. It was a lucky thing that she had, she reflected grimly. In a moment of panic, she'd nearly slipped—and risked her life in doing so.

"Calliope!"

The elf appeared immediately, curtseying low. "Miss is needing Calliope's assistance?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes," said Hermione. "I need you to come with me."

"Calliope is happy to go with Miss wherever she can," said Calliope, beaming at her.

Normally, Hermione would try and think of something nice to say in response, but there was no time. She clambered out of the portrait hole and set off at a run, the Map clutched in her hand. She had to get to Harry, Ron, and Ginny, and then they had to get to the Entrance Hall, although she didn't know what they would do once they got there.

Glancing at the Map as she ran, she was relieved to see that they were still close by. She made a sharp turn in their direction, planning things out in her mind as she went. She could alert Harry, and Harry could alert Professor McGonagall. If they acted quickly enough, perhaps nobody would be hurt.

"Harry!" she screamed, as soon as she had any hope that he might hear her. She looked down at the Map again. The Entrance Hall had already been deserted by the few students who had been standing in it when Draco and his companions had entered. Nobody was there but the Death Eaters, and they were beginning to spread out, pursuing the few who were not in class and had been so unlucky as to be seen already.

"Harry!" she screamed again, as his back came into view.

The group stopped walking, and all turned. "Decided to come along after—Hermione, what's wrong?" said Harry sharply, for he had seen her face.

"Death Eaters," she gasped, out of breath, "in the Entrance Hall."

Harry stared. "What are you talking about?"

"The Map, Harry! You left it behind—look at it. The Entrance Hall!"

She thrust the Map into Harry's hands. They all clustered around it again, and Hermione watched their faces change as they read the names that were milling about on it.

"Why aren't any of our people there?" asked Ron. "McGonagall's office is full of them."

Hermione wrung her hands. "I don't know! The wards must be down. They can't know that they're there, or they'd already be on their way."

Harry didn't need to hear any more. He drew his wand and sprang into action, taking off down the hall at a sprint. "_Expecto Patronum_!" he roared as he ran, and his silver stag burst into the air and shot away towards Professor McGonagall's office.

Hermione had to run harder than ever to keep up. As she ran, she did her best to telegraph her knowledge of what was going on to Professor Snape.

_Please… please_, she thought, the words forming in her mind in rhythm with the slap of her trainers on the stone floor, _you've got to hear me. Draco's here. _Please_, Professor_.

0 0 0

Severus gave up pacing and took his seat once again, but he could not focus on marking exams. He was uneasy. Something didn't feel right—but nobody had sent for him, and the wards in Minerva's office would alert him if anything were amiss; they had seen to that long ago. He shrugged the feeling off, or attempted to. He was probably just feeding off of Hermione's stress or agitation over some exam or essay. Perhaps she was studying for NEWTs. In her position, that would certainly cause enough uneasiness in her that it would leave him no choice but to be aware of it.

Nothing to be concerned about.

Still, the sense of approaching danger did not leave him. He drew his wand, set it on the desk for quick access, and tried to go back to his marking.

0 0 0

"Hermione, stay here," said Ron, as they reached the top of the stairs that descended into the Entrance Hall. "It isn't safe for you to get any closer."

Hermione unwillingly stationed herself there with Dudley and Calliope, peering down into the Entrance Hall. She scanned the rapidly dispersing crowd of Death Eaters, looking for masks that she recognized, trying to discern what was going on.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny were at the bottom of the stairs now, bolts of light already flying from their wands. Four Death Eaters were Stupefied before the rest realized what was going on, and by then, Professor McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Weasleys, and the Aurors finally arrived, wands out, spreading out and swiftly surrounding the Death Eaters in the Hall.

Malfoy had obviously not expected to meet with any sort of organized defense of the school. The element of surprise gone, he looked panicked. A moment later, though, the expression was gone, replaced by the bravado that she had seen him use so many times before.

"Kill them!" he screamed, beginning to fire curses and hexes at the Aurors. "Kill them, you idiots, before it's too late!"

Red and green flashes of light flew everywhere. The Aurors were outnumbered, but they were grim and ruthless, and all of the Death Eaters appeared to be much the worse for wear from spending months in hiding. Still, she watched three Aurors crumple to the floor, dead, in the space of a minute.

One of the Death Eaters ripped his mask off, revealing horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of bright red hair

"What are you doing?" yelled a Death Eater, whose voice Hermione didn't know.

Percy turned, a hard look on his face. "_Stupefy!_" he yelled in answer, and the Death Eater fell. His wandwork was swift and sure, and he'd incapacitated or injured several more Death Eaters before they realized what was happening.

Hermione, her hands gripping the railing on the stairs so tightly that they'd gone completely white, saw the light erupt from the wand, but opened her mouth to scream a warning half a second too late. One of the Death Eaters had finally realized that Percy was no longer on their side, and had hit him with a curse.

He fell to the ground, jerking and screaming—Cruciatus. An angry roar rose above the tortured moans coming from Percy's throat, and Ron leapt over the body of a fallen Death Eater, launching himself through the air at the Death Eater attacking his brother.

He didn't bother with his wand—apparently he'd been paying more attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts than Hermione had given him credit for. He simply tackled the Death Eater to the floor. With a noise of splintering wood that Hermione had long since learned to shudder at, the Death Eater's wand broke beneath his body. Those of his compatriots who were nearby did nothing for a moment, stunned by the idea that a wizard, with wand still in hand, would resort to something as low as a physical attack.

Ron tore off the Death Eater's mask, punching him in the face again and again, his fists soon covered with the blood that gushed from the Death Eater's nose and mouth. George had run forward and was attending to Percy, whose chest was heaving with his huge gasps for breath.

Before the Death Eaters could recover from their surprise, Harry had caught sight of Draco Malfoy, whose mask had been knocked askew, and he broke into a run once more, his wand pointed at Draco's face. The Death Eaters, seeing their leader threatened, froze warily.

"Potter," spat Malfoy, swaggering in spite of the wand that hovered only inches away from his head. "Still playing the hero, are you?"

Harry gave him a sneer worthy of Professor Snape. "Still playing the bastard, Malfoy?"

"Watch your mouth," said Malfoy coldly. His wand was pointed at Harry, both of them tensed, ready to act. The number of Death Eaters had been thinned down enough that the Aurors now outnumbered them, and those who hadn't been stupefied were being taken into custody. A hush fell over the Entrance Hall as the fighting died down, allowing everyone to hear the exchange between Malfoy and Harry.

"I don't think you're in a position to tell me what to do," said Harry, gesturing with his head in the direction of the Aurors. "I don't know what possessed you to do something as stupid as attacking Hogwarts—other than being, well, stupid."

"I could kill you right now!" yelled Malfoy, his face reddening. An Auror, who'd been subduing an injured Death Eater, let go of his quarry and made as if to go after Malfoy, but Malfoy didn't move, and the Death Eater made a swipe at the Auror's leg with his wand, distracting him. Harry and Draco remained alone.

"No you couldn't," said Harry. "You owe me a life debt, Malfoy. Just _try_ and kill me."

"I'll do it!" said Malfoy, his voice getting shriller.

But still, he did nothing, and a moment later, his opportunity was gone. A cloaked figure ran into the center of the room, her hood falling back from her face as she ran.

Beside Hermione, Dudley suddenly took off down the stairs, taking them three at a time. The cloaked woman had a long, sinister-looking knife in her hand, and she was running towards Harry, arm raised.

"MUM!" roared Dudley, launching himself over the railing and jumping the last few feet onto the floor.

Petunia Dursley hesitated for a moment, and that moment was long enough to allow her son to grab her and tackle her to the ground, wresting the knife from her hands. She kicked and screamed like a woman possessed—which, Hermione supposed, probably wasn't very far from the truth, if she was under the Imperius curse, which was surely the only explanation. Dudley, with an anguished cry, finally managed to pry the knife from her fingers, and he threw it aside, the clatter of metal on stone echoing unnaturally through the Hall.

"Aunt Petunia?" said Harry, surprised into turning around. "What are you doing here?"

She was still kicking and writhing on the floor, but Dudley had her effectively pinned, keeping her from trying to attack her nephew again.

"Get this scum out of here," said Professor McGonagall to the Aurors, watching the trio of family members anxiously.

"No!" said Harry, catching the words. "They can't leave!"

Professor McGonagall's mouth tightened. "Potter, there is no—"

"I need to know who cursed my aunt," said Harry. "Please, Professor. Don't send them away. I need to know."

0 0 0

Severus, growing more restless by the minute, checked his pocket watch. The hour was nearly over, and nothing had happened. Still, his sense of foreboding didn't go away. Percy had indicated that the attack would come between the first and second hours of the school day, and there was yet time—to say nothing of the possibility that Draco, incompetent as ever, might simply run late.

He left the marking to do later. It was simply impossible to focus. Shuffling through the papers on his desk, he found a Potions journal he hadn't read yet, and flipped through it absently, looking for something to catch his interest.

0 0 0

Professor McGonagall hesitated for a moment, and Harry seized the opportunity to cry in a loud voice, "Which one of you has this woman under the Imperius curse?"

All the Death Eaters looked at him sullenly, but kept silent.

"Professor," said Harry, "Is there any way to lift it without knowing who cast it?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Professor McGonagall exchanged uneasy glances, and crossed into the center of the room. Hermione had to move much closer to hear, until she was at the very bottom of the stairs.

"Potter," said Professor McGonagall, "you ought to know by now, there's nothing we can do. Perhaps St. Mungo's—"

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact," he said slowly, "there _is_ something we can do."

"Minister," said Professor McGonagall, "you know as well as I do--"

"It is not," said Shacklebolt musingly, "something that we have yet released to the general public, or even to the Aurory at large, although they are aware of the research. But, we have been developing a spell. It detects not only the Imperius curse, but several other forms of Dark magic. We cannot lift it, but we can determine for sure that it has been placed upon her, and perhaps even identify the caster." He studied Petunia Dursley's face impassively. "Given the unusual circumstances surrounding her presence at the school, and that of her son, I am willing to perform it."

Dudley had got his mother into a sitting position, still holding her arms firmly behind her back. He seemed to share Harry's opinion as to the likelihood of her being under Death Eater control, and was obviously unwilling to run the risk of letting her go free.

She lifted her head and spat at Kingsley Shacklebolt's feet.

Dudley winced. "Mum! Stop it!" he said miserably.

"I will not," she snarled, attempting to jerk her hands free from his grip.

"They've helped us, Mum. They've protected us. What's happened to you?"

"Oh, protected us!" she said shrilly, breaking into a hysterical laugh. "If they knew what you were, they'd have been just as happy to send you to your death!"

"No!" said Dudley, "Harry would never do that!"

"Harry!" she spat viciously. "Harry's a _wizard_, and if he knew the truth, he'd hate you as much as your father and I have always hated him!"

Harry winced as if struck. "I'd never hate Dudley," he said softly, his face going red. "He's—he's one of my best friends."

"Liar!" she hissed through her teeth.

Dudley was looking at his mother as if he'd never seen her before. "He's not!" he insisted, his hands twitching as if he wished he could shove her away. "Don't call him that! What's wrong with you?"

"She's cursed, Dud," said Harry, looking as if he wanted to reassure himself just as much as anything else."

"Cursed?"

"Imperio. Remember? I told you about it, it's—"

"I remember," said Dudley, looking almost relieved to hear it. "So—so it's not really her, saying all this?"

"'Course not," said Harry stoutly.

She jerked her arms violently, trying to escape his grip. "Don't talk about things you don't understand!" she snapped. "It doesn't take a curse to make me loathe the sight of you! I wish you'd never been born!"

"Of course she's cursed," said Harry, his wand trembling slightly in his hand. "Anybody who'd put her under Imperius would make sure she said she hadn't been. Minister, can't you do something? You said there was a spell?"

"There is," said Shacklebolt gravely. "You—Dudley—do not move. I must immobilize her."

"No!" she screeched, struggling like a madwoman. "Don't bring that thing anywhere near me! I don't need your spells!"

"That's a matter of opinion," Hermione heard Ron mutter. He'd come up beside her while she was caught up listening to the exchange going on in the center of the Hall, and was wiping blood from his hands.

"You don't know what you need, Aunt Petunia," said Harry gently.

"And you think you do?" she said, sneering. "You don't know a thing about it! None of you know! Oh, Dumbledore thought he was so brilliant, but did he really think? Did he think what he was doing to us?"

For the first time, Harry looked more confused than sympathetic. "What are you talking about?"

"Secrets," she said acidly.

"But—" Harry paused, as if trying to gather his thoughts, "Aunt Petunia, what kind of secrets could Dumbledore possibly have had that you knew about?"

Her lip curled. "It's in your blood to be a superior little bastard, isn't it?"

"Mum!" said Dudley, shocked.

"I'm not trying to be," protested Harry. "I just don't understand."

"Harry," said Shacklebolt, laying one hand on Harry's shoulder, "this is an exercise in futility. You cannot listen to a word from her lips until the curse has been lifted."

"Fine," said Harry, whose face had gone rather white. "I'm sorry, Minister. Please, if you don't mind, would you do the spell?"

Shacklebolt pointed his wand at the violently struggling woman that Dudley held in his arms. "_Petrificus Totalus_," he said, in his rich, commanding voice. Immediately, she froze, her body contorted, her face twisted into a hideous expression of rage that reminded Hermione disturbingly of Bellatrix Lestrange. She looked as if she'd gone utterly mad.

Nobody spoke as the Minister for Magic moved his wand in a series of complex gestures around the frozen, distorted-looking woman that was Harry Potter's aunt. His lips moved soundlessly, his eyes fell closed, and then, after nearly a minute of intricate wandwork, he stopped, opening his eyes.

Nothing happened.

Hermione didn't know what she'd expected to see, but _nothing_ certainly was not it. Shacklebolt appeared to feel the same way, for his normally calm and unflappable expression had changed into one of open surprise.

"Was that it?" asked Dudley uncertainly. "Was that the whole spell?"

"Yes," said Shacklebolt slowly.

"She's under the curse, right?"

Hermione guessed the answer before she heard it, but it did nothing to lessen the shock she felt when Shacklebolt shook his head in answer to Harry's question.

Harry flinched, taking a step backwards, his eyes moving involuntarily to his aunt's face, filled with a look of pain that Hermione could hardly bear to see. "Do you mean," he said very slowly, "that she—she tried—she really wanted to…?"

Shacklebolt glanced at Professor McGonagall, whose face was nearly as white as Harry's. She caught his look and her face seemed to crumple. "Yes, Potter," she said, her tone as stern as ever, although her eyes were gentle and sad, "it does."

Harry pointed his wand swiftly at his aunt. "Hold her, Dud. _Finite Incantatem_," he said, his voice shaking. "Aunt Petunia, I want to know what you were talking about. Tell me. Now."

Being petrified had enraged her even more, and she managed to twist one leg out from beneath her body and kick out at Harry, who dodged the attempted blow easily.

"Tell me," he repeated. "Aunt Petunia, please."

"_Please_?" she laughed again, and Hermione thought that even her laughter sounded like Bellatrix, high, and shrill, and more than a little insane. "You'll have to do better than 'please,' I think."

Dudley, whose grip on his mother had grown even tighter, pulled her further away from his cousin, so that she couldn't try to kick him again. "Tell me," he said angrily. "I don't bloody care if you want to tell Harry or not. Tell _me_."

"Let me go!"

"Not until you tell me what you're fucking talking about, Mum!"

She was startled out of her struggle to free herself. "How dare you speak to me like--"

"I don't care," said Dudley, his anger easily a match for hers. "You tried to kill Harry! Why?"

"I told you, he'd do the same to you, if he knew!"

"Knew _what_?"

"If he knew what you are," she said, with a look of such loathing on her face that even Hermione wanted to recoil. She could hardly believe that this was the same woman who had spoiled her son and stayed at her nephew's home for so long without complaint or challenge.

"I'm his cousin," said Dudley.

"You're a squib," she snapped.

Hermione tasted blood on her lip—in her surprise, she'd tightened her jaw and bitten through the flesh.

"I'm a—no I'm not!" said Dudley.

"That's impossible," said Harry indignantly. "He'd have to have magical parents to be a squib."

"What did I tell you?" she shrieked. "He's already begun! He doesn't care about you, Dudley!"

"Of course I do," said Harry falteringly, his eyes flickering rapidly between mother and son. "I just don't understand how he could be a squib. You're—you're not a _witch_, are you?"

"No!" exclaimed Dudley. "She couldn't be a witch!" He hesitated, as if finally taking in the robes that she wore, and the way she was struggling to free herself from him. His eyes moved to the knife that lay on the floor, where he had thrown it aside. "You—you aren't a witch, are you, mum?"

"Oh no," she said coldly. "Unlike the rest of my family, I was born without magical blood."

"You mean unlike your sister," said Harry, furrowing his brow.

"Unlike my _family_," she corrected sharply.

Harry looked around helplessly, as if asking one of the people surrounding them to wake him up from whatever bizarre dream he'd stumbled into. "My grandparents weren't magical—well, not on your side of the family, anyhow."

Petunia Dursley finally managed to jerk her arm free of Dudley's grasp, but she didn't make another attempt on Harry. "Your grandparents were liars," she said, with greatest distaste.

"But if you weren't magical, and mum and my grandparents were, that would make you a—"

"A squib!" she said angrily, her voice echoing shrilly through the Hall. A mocking sneer twisted her face. "The shame of my family, the stain on their useless, forgotten legacy!"

"But that doesn't make any sense," said Harry desperately, looking to his cousin for support. But Dudley could say nothing. He simply returned Harry's look with a baffled one of his own. "Someone would have known if my grandparents were magic. Someone would have told me. Dumbledore _said_ I was half-blood. He said my mum was Muggle-born."

"Dumbledore," said Petunia disdainfully, "was, is, and always will be a worthless, manipulating liar."

"Don't talk about him that way!"

"Go ahead," she jeered, "use your wand to shut me up. It's what wizards do best, isn't it, Harry?"

"I'm not going to use my wand on you," said Harry, drawing back slightly.

"Your _honored_ grandparents," said Petunia, who seemed unable to stop, now that she had got going, "weren't named Evans at all. They both came from the _best_ pureblood families. Oh yes, Cassiopeia Selwyn and Geoffrey Kensington were head boy and girl at Hogwarts, in their day."

"I—what?" Harry's gaze turned to Professor McGonagall now, whose mouth was moving soundlessly. It looked as if she were repeating the names she'd just heard, dawning comprehension and recognition on her face.

"Yes, they left school several years before a much more famous student did." Petunia's eyes fell on a Death Eater's mask that had fallen to the floor, a strange look of pride on her face. "They never liked Tom Riddle. My father was a Hufflepuff in every sense of the word, and my mother was Gryffindor to the core, I'm sorry to say." She sniffed disdainfully.

"Tom Riddle?" repeated Harry dazedly.

"They were set completely against him, and he spent several years trying to kill them for it." She shrugged jerkily, dismissively. "Dumbledore demanded that they be hidden. He forced them to leave the magical world and pose as Muggles, for the sake of their lives. He promised them that when the Dark Lord died, they would be allowed to return, but it was too late for that by the time it happened." She laughed mirthlessly.

"No," said Harry slowly. "There would be some sort of record. Someone would know."

"Dumbledore had them erased," she said, looking irritated with his slowness to believe her. "He changed their name to Evans, and made it look as though the Kensingtons were dead. He did everything in his power to be sure that there was no record of them left anywhere that could tie them back to the magical world."

Harry slowly lowered himself to the floor and sat down, staring at his aunt. "I don't understand."

"You're as stupid as your mother," she snapped.

"Don't talk to him that way," said Dudley angrily. "He hasn't done anything to you!"

"It's more the fact that he exists at all," she said, venomously.

"Wait," said Harry, who seemed to be working very hard to ignore the last comment, "this doesn't make sense. I saw in the—I mean, Professor Snape told me that neither of you knew anything about magic, before my mum got her Hogwarts letter."

Petunia's mouth twisted as if she'd bitten into something bitter. "They agreed never to tell us—never to tell their own children, until the letters from Hogwarts arrived." Her hands tightened into fists. "I never got one, and so neither of us knew anything until Lily was offered the honor of becoming Dumbledore's next fawning lackey. We were made to promise never to discuss it outside of our own family, and when you were born, Dumbledore forced us both to swear that nobody would tell you until you were of age."

Dudley looked at his mother with slowly dawning comprehension. "So, the reason I can see Hogwarts is because I'm _magic_?"

"The reason you can see Hogwarts," she said coldly, "is because you _aren't_ magic, but the rest of your family _is_."

"So—_you're_ magic?"

Her lips puckered sourly. "No."

Dudley started to ask another question, but Hermione didn't hear it. The mention of Professor Snape's name had reminded her that he wasn't there to hear the exchange. She took another look around as she got to her feet, preparing to go and fetch him. Surely he would wish to know this.

She noticed something else as she did.

Draco was gone, too.

0 0 0

Severus could stand it no longer. Something was wrong, and he'd run out of ways and reasons to pretend that it wasn't so. He looked down at the book on his desk—the fourth he'd attempted to read—and closed it. Picking his wand up from the desk, he neatly stacked his still-unmarked exams, returned his books and journals to their proper bookshelves, and opened the door to office.

He made it perhaps six paces down the hallway before the curse hit his back.

0 0 0

She didn't know exactly how she knew that Draco had gone after Professor Snape instead of running away from the school. All she knew was that she had to get to him, and to get there as fast as she could. She looked around wildly for Calliope, beckoned to her, and then ran for the door, skirting the outside perimeter of the Hall to avoid being stopped by the Aurors, who were currently distracted by the scene still playing out between Harry, Dudley, and Aunt Petunia.

Calliope following close behind, Hermione ran as fast as she could. She ran faster than she had run to the Entrance Hall, faster than she'd ever run before. She had to get to Professor Snape before Draco did. She _had_ to. She knew he could defend himself, but something, something prodded her that things were going to go wrong. She had to get there in time to help him.

She took the stairs down to the dungeons at breakneck speed, nearly losing her balance several times, recovering it at the last possible moment each time. He'd been in his office. Perhaps he was still there. Perhaps…

She skidded to a halt when she heard Draco's voice.

"—traitorous, worthless piece of half-blood filth! Lie there and die, you bastard."

At first, Professor Snape didn't respond. Hermione hoped against hope that it was from stubbornness, rather than from incapacitation. When he did speak, her heart soared. Up until that moment, she'd had no idea that the simple sound of a familiar voice could fill her with such joy and relief.

"Tell me how," he said. His voice was weak, but it was _there_. He wasn't dead. If Hermione could only think of what to do, if she could only come up with some way to get at Draco, things might still turn out well.

She crept forward and peered around the corner. Professor Snape lay on the ground. Occasionally, he twitched, and as she looked, she saw that blood was slowly spreading out along the floor from beneath his body. Her heart began to race. Time was very limited, it seemed.

"The castle's broken," said Draco tauntingly. "Your precious Hogwarts isn't safe anymore."

Professor Snape shifted feebly, his hand moving down to clutch at his side, which appeared to be the source of the bleeding. It reminded Hermione terribly of the day he'd almost died.

"I found it in _Hogwarts, a History_. The Hat—the Sorting Hat, and the Come-and-Go Room, they're tied to the magic of the castle. When they were destroyed, it made the wards weak."

Professor Snape let out a horrible gurgle, and a thin stream of blood bubbled up from his mouth and dripped down his cheek. He seemed to be straining to say something, but the effort proved too painful, and he lapsed back into silence, his eyes moving helplessly to his wand, which lay several feet beyond his reach.

"The Room is destroyed, and the Hat is dying. They were enchanted with the power to see into wizards' thoughts, and the power was tied to the wards. Now that they've lost their power, the castle's lost the ability to tell whether someone is an intruder or not. We were able to walk right in, and none of you even noticed. They're going to close the school down when they find out. McGonagall will have no idea what's actually gone wrong, and you'll be dead, so I doubt you'll be able to let her know."

He aimed a vicious kick at Professor Snape's shoulder, eliciting a groan of pain from him that tore at Hermione's heart.

"I'd stay and watch," said Draco coldly, "but you're not worth a trip to Azkaban."

And then, to Hermione's disbelieving relief, he ran, like the cowardly worm that he was.

She waited only a second or two before running to Professor Snape's side and falling to her knees. "Professor," she said, a sob catching her halfway through the word, "Professor, I'm here. I'm going to help you."

His eyes had drifted shut, but at the sound of her voice they snapped open, fixing on her face. He opened his mouth again, his teeth and tongue stained with bright red blood. With a rattling breath, he attempted to say something, but he failed.

"No," she said desperately, hot tears making her vision go suddenly blurry, "don't try and speak. You've got to save your energy. Please. You can't die. Please, don't die."

She had to tell someone, she had to fetch someone to help him. She didn't pause to think. There was nothing to think about, except for the agonized, paper-white face that gazed up at her. She pulled her wand from her sleeve, pointed it away from him, and, thinking desperately of her need to keep him alive, screamed, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

And a lithe, silvery figure shot from the tip of her wand. It turned in the air once, its bushy tail spinning around gracefully after it, and then darted away through the air, leaving only a faint, silvery trace behind, that soon dissolved into nothingness as the silvery animal sped away with her desperate plea for help.

She looked after it for only a moment. There would be time later to wonder how she'd managed to successfully performed the charm. She was already moving her shaking hands to his stomach, fumbling with the many buttons that held his coat closed. It was soaked with blood, but there were no cuts in it.

"What did he do?" she asked him frantically, but his eyes were beginning to roll back in his head. "No! Professor, please, _please_, you've got to stay awake. You're going into shock. I need to know what he hit you with, and where. Please. I need to know how to help you."

But he couldn't answer. His lips moved feebly, and one of his hands made a weak movement, as if trying to direct her, but she couldn't interpret it. Then, seized with a sudden inspiration, she took the hand in both of hers.

"Tell me," she whispered, looking into his eyes, trying to meet his gaze through the weak fluttering of his eyelids.

His eyes widened for a moment, his fingers made another feeble movement, as if to grasp her hand in return, and he shuddered again. Then, suddenly, her mind filled with images. Draco, hitting Professor Snape in the back with a curse. _Sectumsempra_. She bit her lip, struggling not to begin crying again. There would be time later to panic. She needed to know what to do.

"Please," she whispered yet again, "tell me how to help you. I don't know how to undo that curse."

And then she touched his mind again, and saw nothing. There was no image this time, but a word—a nonverbal spell. She reached for her wand, one hand still clasping his tightly.

"I've got to turn you around, sir," she murmured anxiously. "I'm sorry. It's going to hurt. I'm not strong enough to move you gently."

He moved his head in what might have been a nod, if he'd had the strength to control the movement. Gritting her teeth, she let go of his hand and looked at him uncertainly for a movement, sliding her hands along under his body, uncertain of how to move him.

There was nothing for it but to try until she succeeded. Wincing at the thought of the pain she was surely going to cause him, she hooked her hands beneath his body and strained to lift him.

He was a dead weight. For all of his gaunt thinness, she could barely move him. She heard a despairing little moan, and realized that it came from her own mouth. She adjusted her grip, and tried again. This time his body rocked slightly, and he gasped, his eyes opening again. She snatched her hands away immediately.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've _got_ to turn you around."

Just as his eyes were closing again, he looked towards her wand. She followed the look. The delicate piece of wood lay inert on the floor. She had no idea if she could use it, but she had to try. She simply hadn't got the strength to move him any other way. She'd managed to cast a Patronus charm. Perhaps she could manage this, too.

Snatching up her wand, she pointed it at him, whispering, "_Levicorpus_."

She'd gained some ability to control the spell during their attempt to rob Gringotts, and his body floated slowly up into the air. Biting her lip, terrified of losing her control, she moved her wand, gently turning his body and lowering it again so that he lay on his stomach. His head lolled limply on the floor, and she gently turned it to ensure that he could breathe, afraid that if she left it, he might drown in his own blood where he lay.

There were huge gashes in the back of his frock coat, and she hooked her fingers in them and tore them open. Beneath the sodden fabric, she found matching gashes in his flesh, cutting so deeply that she could see the white ridges of his spinal column through the neatly sliced layers of muscle.

She wrapped the fingers of her left hand around his once again and, focusing all of her attention on the spell, she began to move her wand over his back.

It took seven passes before the wounds began to knit together. She held her breath, repeating the incantation and the wand movement again and again as, with agonizing slowness, his flesh joined together and returned to what it had been before, leaving, at last, only a series of purple scars, bright and ragged on his skin.

"Calliope," she whispered hoarsely, "he needs a blood-replenishing potion."

"I isn't supposed to leave Miss alone!" protested the elf.

"I'm not alone. Professor Snape is here."

Calliope inched forward, peering at Professor Snape's still face and slightly parted lips. "I thinks he's dead, Miss," she whispered.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Evil? Why yes, I am. 


	56. Where Your Treasure Is

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 56: Where Your Treasure Is**

* * *

"He's not dead!" said Hermione fiercely, "but he will be if you don't shut up and go!"

Calliope stared at her for a few agonizingly long seconds, shocked, and then disappeared. Hermione didn't, couldn't move until the Elf returned, nearly a minute later, a bottle of the potion clutched in her hands.

Together, they gave it to him, Hermione holding his head up while Calliope pried open his mouth and poured the potion in, massaging his throat to get him to swallow. Only when the last drop of potion was gone from the bottle did Hermione realize how sharply she had spoken to the Elf who had been nothing but kind and helpful to her. Guilt rose up in her chest, hot and miserable.

"I'm sorry, Calliope," she whispered. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was upset."

Calliope turned wide, frightened eyes on her. "Miss shouldn't apologize," she said uncomfortably. "Calliope should have listened."

"No," protested Hermione, "it wasn't right to speak to you that way. Please forgive me."

Calliope blinked twice, shuffling her feet nervously. "Miss mustn't talk that way. Does Miss need Calliope to stay?"

Hermione looked down at Professor Snape, whose chest was moving rapidly up and down, though it was almost imperceptible. "Would you mind fetching Madam Pomfrey?" she asked, her voice sounding hoarse and strange in her ears.

Calliope nodded, looking relieved to be given a task, and disappeared again, leaving Hermione and Professor Snape alone on the cold dungeon floor.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered. His body was heavy, but she moved him carefully, covering his torso with his torn coat, and cradling his head in her lap. He didn't move. Nothing marked the passage of time in any way, except for the endless repetition of her heartbeat in her ears, and the steady caress of her hand on his clammy forehead.

That was how Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley found them, when they finally came.

0 0 0

Late that evening, when the furor had finally begun to die down, the Aurors had returned to the Ministry, and Hermione Granger had been sent to the Hospital Wing for inspection by Madame Pomfrey, her closest friends sat in a cluster around the Common Room fire, talking in low, serious voices.

"—don't see why you're complaining," said Harry Potter, through a still-wriggling mouthful of chocolate frog. "She's got her magic back. Who cares if she got it back by helping Snape? There are worse things."

"She was—she was--you saw them!" protested Ron Weasley, looking around at the assembled group for support.

"Of course she was, Ron," said his sister impatiently. "She'd just got down there to find him bleeding to death all over the floor. Pretty natural reaction on her part to try and make sure he's as comfortable as possible, I think."

Ron's eyebrows knit together. "But it's _Snape_!"

"Come off it, Ron," said Harry, a trifle irritably. "He's not that bad. And... people are saying that he's dying. I don't think you've much to be jealous of, even if she hadn't sent you packing."

"You'd have done the same thing," added Ginny.

Ron scowled. "Not for Snape."

"Fine," she said, shrugging. "Madam Rosmerta, maybe?"

"It's not the same!" Ron cried, looking horrified. "Madam Rosmerta's--she's--she's--it's different!"

"Only because she never gave you a T on an essay."

"That has nothing to do with it. Snape's her _professor_. And he's a git."

"Ron!" said Harry angrily.

"He _is_."

"No he isn't."

Ron looked at Harry and scowled. "Okay, fine. He's not a git. He's a nice, wonderful, absolutely lovely person who pretends to be a git, every moment of every day."

"He's nice to Hermione," said Neville quietly.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Ron appeared to have become very interested in the pattern of the carpet. Finally, he shrugged. "I guess he did save her life," he admitted grudgingly.

"Besides," said Ginny reprovingly, "she could be snogging him behind a suit of armor and it wouldn't be any of your business."

"Yeah," said Harry, "but let's not think about that."

"Too right," said Ron, with great feeling.

"Besides," said Neville, whose cheeks were a bit red, "she's his apprentice. It changes things, you know. They've got a… sort of bond," he added in a rush, the red spreading to his forehead and ears. "So of course she'd want to take care of him."

Harry shrugged. "I don't see why it matters. It's not like they're married or something."

"Only it _is _like that," said Ron. He shook his head unhappily. "At least, until the apprenticeship is over, it is."

"Why should it be?"

Ginny, who'd been peeling an orange, tossed the peel into the fire and ate a segment. "Because," she said, "it's just… _like_ that, Harry. They've been magically tied to one another. He's got to protect her, and she's got to rely on him for a lot of things."

Harry frowned. "So what happens if he dies?"

"Well," said Neville slowly, "I don't know exactly how it works with apprenticeships. I guess it releases her from her Vow. It's a little different with magical marriages. Magical bonds do strange things when one of the people bonded by them dies." He looked down at his hands with an oddly unhappy expression.

Harry nodded. "Well, either way, it isn't as if she's in love with him. She's just learning about Potions, and when the apprenticeship is up, she never has to see him again, if she doesn't want to."

"If he doesn't die," said Neville.

"Right," said Harry shortly.

Ginny reached over and squeezed Harry's arm. "Madame Pomfrey will fix him right up. You'll see. She always does, doesn't she? He'll go right back to being Snape, and Hermione will learn all about Potions, and then never see him again, like you said. Maybe by then Ron will get another crack at making it work." She smiled rather mockingly. "A year away from each other, and I bet she'll forget all the bad things about you."

"Shut up, you," said Ron.

She raised her eyebrows coolly. "Make me."

Ron glanced at his sister. "Nah," he said. "Too easy."

"You're just afraid of her Bat-Bogey Hex," said Neville, grinning. "She really perfected it last year."

"Yeah," said Harry, looking at his girlfriend, and then standing up suddenly. "Look, I think I'm going to go take a walk. If Hermione gets back before me, tell her I'm really happy she's got her magic back."

Ron looked up at him. "A _walk_? At this time of night? What for?"

"I just fancy a bit of a walk," said Harry, frowning.

"Yeah, but what for?"

"Ron," said Ginny, "shut up."

"Yeah," said Harry, heading for the portrait hole. "Shut up, Ron. I'll see you all later."

0 0 0

Hermione sat on a bed in the Hospital Wing, her knees pulled to her chest. "So, I can do magic again? It's just... gone back to normal? Just like that?"

Madame Pomfrey smiled at her. "It appears that way."

"I don't understand." She frowned. "It just... came back? For no reason?"

The matron looked meditatively at her reflection in the darkened window. "The a witch or wizard's ability to tap into their reservoir of magic is something that we only understand to a certain degree. What we do know is that it never comes and goes without a reason."

"What about squibs?" said Hermione, thinking of Petunia Dursley.

"Genetic mutation. Don't look so surprised, my dear. Mendel was a wizard, you know. We've kept up with the science of things, at least in mediwitchery. Admittedly, not many of us outside the field are aware of it."

"But what happened to me wasn't genetic, was it? I mean, not like some sort of disease, or something, that was triggered by--by what happened?"

Madame Pomfrey smiled again. "I think not. No, I think what happened to you really is much more easily explained by psychology. It was triggered by all that you've been through this year, and probably before then, but it was not some sort of underlying disease that you will never be rid of."

Hermione bit her lip, feeling for the handle of her wand, making sure the familiar tingle of magic was still there. "Are you sure?"

"It's a known phenomenon, although it's rare to see it in witches or wizards who aren't suffering from unrequited love." Her eyes lingered on Hermione's face thoughtfully for a moment. "Essentially, you reached a point that your mind and heart could no longer bear. Your only choice was to withdraw from it or to break under it. Had you been a Muggle, you would have been much worse off, but you have the advantage of being a witch."

"How does that help?"

Madame Pomfrey checked her watch. "Time for another sip of Calming Draught, dear."

"I think I'm all right now, thanks."

"One more half-dose, and I'll let you go. I'd prefer not to see you back here again until you're delivering potions from Professor Snape's laboratory next year."

Hermione took the half-dose of Calming Draught, and curled up a little smaller. "Why is being a witch an advantage?"

"You did not lose your magical ability to no end, my dear. In fact, you were performing magic constantly."

Hermione blinked. "I don't understand."

"The magical mind has a great ability to heal itself when it has been damaged. It can be fractured beyond repair, but it takes more than what happened to you. You have been unable to use your magical ability because it has been occupied in holding your mind together."

She frowned uncertainly. "Oh."

"How have you been feeling about your parents, dear?" asked Madame Pomfrey gently.

"I--" Hermione stopped to think. "I don't know. Sad, of course."

"But it has not been eating into your mind the way that it did for such a long time?"

"No," she said slowly, "but it's been several months."

"And you are recovering splendidly," said Madame Pomfrey. "In fact, you've been behaving almost exactly like your old self for some time now."

"I'm still sad about it," repeated Hermione defensively.

Madame Pomfrey nodded. "I know you are. But you are no longer in despair."

"And that's why I got my magic back?"

She gave Hermione another long, thoughtful look. "I think that your desire to aid Professor Snape provided the final push to bring you out of yourself. That, in any case, is the theory. I'm not a specialist in magical psychology."

Hermione didn't answer. She looked down at her hands, picking uncomfortably at one of her fingernails, which had broken in her attempt to turn Professor Snape over, and was now rough and jagged.

"How have things been with Professor Snape?"

Hermione looked up, blushing in spite of herself. "Oh," she said, "they're fine. I haven't been seeing much of him lately--that is to say, I mean, I haven't had lessons. He excused me this week so I could have a rest before starting the apprenticeship work."  
She didn't know why she blushed like that, or why she stammered over the words. There was just something in Madame Pomfrey's eyes that made Hermione feel as if Madame Pomfrey had discovered a secret that Hermione didn't even know she had.

"Well," said Madame Pomfrey, "I think you can go. Don't overdo it. You've had a very long day. Say hello to your friends, and then straight to bed."

"Yes ma'am," said Hermione dutifully, unfolding herself and getting off the bed. She glanced over her shoulder at the prone form of Professor Snape, half-hidden by a curtain. "Is he--he's going to be all right, isn't he?"

Madame Pomfrey's expression grew more serious. "He was very badly injured."

"But... he's going to be all right?"

The matron smoothed the bedclothes where Hermione had rumpled them by sitting there. "He has a long history of surviving wounds from snakes, my dear," she said gently. "Now, go and see your friends. We'll know soon enough."

0 0 0

It was a very chilly night. A lone figure stood at the top of the Astronomy tower, wrapped tightly in a winter cloak and staring over the wall to the ground below.

"Harry," said another figure, who had just ascended behind him.

Harry Potter turned around. "Neville?"

"Hi," said Neville, crossing the tower to join Harry in looking down.

"What are you doing here?"

"Fancied a walk," said Neville shortly.

Harry turned back, leaning on the wall. "Yeah, me too."

"Are you okay?"

Harry shrugged.

Neville tightened his own cloak around himself a little more. "Is this where it happened?"

"Yeah," said Harry, not asking what Neville was referencing.

"Right in this spot?"

Harry pointed to a place a few inches to Neville's right. "There."

"Was it really Snape?"

"Yeah."

Neville shivered. "Harry?" he said, after a few minutes of silence.

"Yeah?"

"D'you think Snape is going to die?"

Harry's shoulders tensed. "I don't know."

"You like him a lot better than you used to," said Neville. It wasn't a question.

"He was in love with my mum," said Harry slowly. "I don't know how to explain why that changes anything, but it does. He'll never be like Sirius or Remus or anything--nobody could replace them--but he was there with her, all that time, the same way they were. He cared about her the way they all did."

"Yeah," said Neville softly.

Harry kicked at the wall with the toe of one trainer. "If he dies, it's one more bit of my mum that's dead. And after what Aunt Petunia--" he stopped and cleared his throat, looking away.

Neville leaned his arms on the wall, hanging his head until his forehead rested on them. He didn't say anything. Harry looked down over the wall again, staring at a single point on the ground far below, illuminated dimly by the lower windows of the castle.

"I need to tell you something, Harry," said Neville, straightening up again. "But, you have to promise to keep it a secret."

"Okay," said Harry listlessly.

"No, I mean really," insisted Neville. "It's important, Harry."

"I promise."

"It's about Hermione."

"I already know you're in love with her."

"Er," said Neville.

"I'm not as thick about those things as I used to be," Harry added. "Besides, Ginny told me."

"Right," said Neville, in an embarrassed voice. "Well, it's not about that, actually."

"Oh," said Harry, sounding equally embarrassed. "Well... sorry, then."

"It's about Hermione and Snape."

"What about them?"

"They're--oh Merlin, I don't know how to even start explaining this. You remember what happened when Hermione went to Australia?"

"About Wilkes? Of course I remember. Hermione nearly died."

"Right. Well, do you remember what Snape did?"

Harry hesitated. "He went to Australia after her."

"How did he know that she was in Australia?"

"He came to Grimmauld Place," said Harry. "We told him where she went."

"Okay," said Neville, nodding. "How did he know she'd gone somewhere other than London?"

Harry's pause was longer this time. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how did he know she was in trouble? He didn't come after you for skiving off the last week of term."

"He--" said Harry "--I don't know."

"Yeah," said Neville. "And then how did he find her so fast? He could have gone anywhere in Australia. It's a big country, you know. But he found her right away, yeah?"

"He just--" said Harry, but he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't appear to have an answer for it.

"Exactly," agreed Neville meaningfully.

"Huh?"

"What I'm trying to say is, there's a reason for that."

"And you know the reason?"

"Hermione told me."

"Why are you telling me?"

Neville took a deep breath. "Because, Hermione could die."

"_What?_" Harry spun around, staring at Neville.

"There's this enchantment," said Neville quickly, "from when she saved his life last year. She... did something, and now their souls are attached."

"Attached? What's that supposed to mean?" asked Harry suspiciously.

"Like, magically, they got bonded."

Harry sucked a breath in loudly through his teeth. "Bonded, like in that apprenticeship ceremony?"

"Stronger than that. It's a bit like they traded pieces of their souls."

Harry's hand moved to press against his forehead, a horrified look on his face. "That's--that's--_Hermione_ did that?"

"By accident, she did."

"You're telling me that Hermione has pieces of Snape's soul inside hers?"

"And pieces of hers are inside his. So when she was in trouble in Australia, he saw it."

Harry stared at Neville, open-mouthed. "Bloody hell," he whispered.

"Yeah," agreed Neville fervently. "I guess Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey say it's all right, but--Harry, if Snape dies, Hermione could die too."

"Why?" said Harry sharply.

"Their souls have been all tied up with each other for nearly a year, and they've seen so much of each other and been through so much together, there's no way to know how tangled up they might get. If he dies, he could pull her with him, or it could drive her mad, or all sorts of things." Neville's voice was shaking now, his hands clenching the stone wall.

"He's not going to die," said Harry fiercely.

"He could," said Neville.

"And neither is she."

"Why not?"

Harry looked down at his feet. He was standing on the spot he'd pointed out minutes earlier, where Albus Dumbledore had been hit by the killing curse. "They just can't," he said.

0 0 0

Hermione kept her wand tightly in her hand as she walked back to the Gryffindor Common Room. It was late, nearly curfew, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled with anxiety. Draco had escaped, and she knew from Percy's reports during Order meetings that he was after her. The Aurors had searched the grounds, but one could only search the castle itself so thoroughly in a single day.

She made it more than halfway before it happened.

"Granger," said Draco softly from the shadows, stepping out in front of her with his wand held up.

"Malfoy," she said, her own wand gripped tightly in her hand and hidden in a fold of her robes.

"It's been so long," he drawled. "I heard you can't do magic anymore. Appropriate, _I_ think. Takes you right back to your worthless Muggle roots."

"Oh, is that what you're still hanging around here for?" she asked, more bravely than she felt. "Slumming it?"

A feral smile slowly spread on his face, and he took a step forward. "I did think it might be fun to reminisce about old times, Granger."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not."

"Shut up, mudblood," he spat angrily, though the smile never left his face. "You loved it, you little slut."

"Hermione?" called Harry. "Who are you talking to?"

Draco froze as Harry and Neville came down the stairs. As soon as Harry saw Draco, his wand was out. Neville was even faster, and Hermione, flanked by two of her best friends, raised her own wand as well.

"Potter," said Draco, white-faced.

"You should have left while you had a chance," said Harry coldly.

"Oh I don't know," said Hermione thoughtfully. "Easier to hide here than a lot of places."

"Score one for the mudblood," sneered Draco.

"Don't call her that!" said Neville furiously.

"Try and stop me, Longbottom! _Crucio!_"

Neville screamed and fell, though he managed to keep his hold on his wand.

Hermione, without thinking, brought her wand down on Draco's arm. She felt the tingling sensation of magic in her fingers, and a flash of light exploded between the tip of her wand and the soft flesh that it was buried in. He screamed even more loudly than Neville, and dropped his wand, jerking his arm away from her.

"Bitch!" he shouted, trying to hit her in the face. "I should have killed you three years ago!"

"_Incarcerous_!" she hissed in answer, ropes slithering out from her wand and wrapping themselves around him. "_Silencio_!"

Abruptly, Malfoy's ranting was cut off. Harry and Neville kept their wands on him, Neville looking as if it would take only one more word out of Malfoy's mouth to send him over the edge into uncontrollable rage.

"What does he mean, he should have killed you three years ago?" asked Harry, who was looking at Malfoy with a hard expression.

Hermione flushed. "It doesn't matter."

"It bloody well does," snapped Neville. "What happened?"

"He--nothing. I told you, it doesn't matter. I'm fine, aren't I?"

Neville finally turned away from Draco, narrowing his eyes at Hermione. "Did he hurt you?"

"I--" Hermione faltered, fumbling for a lie.

"What did he do to you, Hermione?"

When Hermione still couldn't answer, Harry's face changed again, this time to one of utmost horror. "It was _him?_"

Hermione flinched.

"It was _Malfoy_? Why didn't you tell me, Hermione?"

"Tell you what?" said Neville. "What did he do to her?"

"You worthless sodding piece of Death Eater _slime,"_ snarled Harry, advancing on Draco with a murderous look in his eyes. "How dare you even think about touching her? How _dare_ you?"

Neville looked from Hermione to Harry to Draco and back again. "Hermione," he said slowly, "what did Draco do to you?"

Hermione shook her head mutely, torn between hexing Harry to shut him up, and hexing Draco just because she could.

"They're going to put you in Azkaban," said Harry, "and you're going to rot there, you bastard. I hope they give you the Kiss. It's more than you deserve."

Draco blanched, struggling silently to get free of his bonds.

"Harry!" said Neville again. "What did he _do?"_

"He attacked her," said Harry angrily, "fifth year, right after she got out of the Hospital Wing."

"Attacked her?" repeated Neville. "Attacked her how?"

"He raped her," Harry said, white and shaking with rage.

_"Harry!_" said Hermione, aghast.

She just had time to catch Harry's guilty expression when she felt movement beside her. Neville's arm swung around and hit Draco squarely in the jaw, so hard that they all heard the snapping noise of the bone breaking.

"Merlin," he gasped, a moment later, clutching his hand and rubbing the knuckles, which were already beginning to turn red and bruise. "That hurt."

"Neville," said Harry in awe, staring at Draco, "I think you broke his jaw."

Draco was spitting blood now, his mouth working furiously, but still silently. Hermione wasn't very good at lip-reading, but even she could make out a few of the curses he was spewing at them.

"Neville, leave him alone," said Hermione softly. "He's not worth it. Let the Dementors have him."

0 0 0

The weather was finally beginning to approximate warmth again. Hermione took advantage of it, and, simply for the pleasure of being alone, had slipped away to one of the gardens. She sat quietly, watching a smallish silver animal playing around her feet. It had been two days since her magic had come back, and it was as amazing to have it back as it had been to discover so many years ago that she had it at all.

"That's not your Patronus," said a voice behind her.

"No," she said. But it was—at least, it had come from her wand twice now, and at her bidding. It paused and looked up at her, its head cocked.

"Your Patronus is an otter." The pebbles lining the path crunched as Ron circled around into her field of vision, looking glum.

"Yes." She looked down at her new Patronus again. "Well, it _was_ an otter," she amended lamely.

"A fox?"

Hermione nodded.

"Why a fox?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I've got no idea what made it change. Maybe it's got something to do with losing and regaining my magic. I've got to go to the library and do some reading."

"Maybe it's Snape," said Ron darkly. He sat down next to her, looking at the fox, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped, more sharply than she'd intended to. Rumors had spread quickly through the castle about the real course of events when Draco had gone after Professor Snape, and Hermione was more than tired of dealing with them. After Harry's blurting out of her secret about Draco, she'd developed a feeling of paranoia that Neville might not be as trustworthy about her other secrets as she'd believed him to be.

"Nothing."

"If all you're going to do is sit there and make stupid comments, I'm leaving."

"You don't need to," said Ron hastily. "I didn't mean it. It's just hard for me, okay? You know I still... fancy you." His ears reddened. "And it looked a bit--you know, a bit odd, seeing him there with his head in your lap. and then your Patronus changing... they say it's got to do with who you love, hasn't it?"

"You," she said frigidly, "are a git. And if being jealous of Professor Snape, of all people, is all that you can think of at a time like this, when he's--when he's probably--I haven't got anything to say to you. There are plenty of reasons for them to change!"

"I'm sorry! I said I didn't mean it."

"Right," said Hermione sullenly. The fox leapt up onto her lap, sitting there and grooming itself. Hermione found it strange to see an animal sitting on her lap without being able to feel even the slightest weight from its body. She expected to feel the pressure of its paws on her, but there was nothing at all, not even the cold sensation that she got from touching a ghost.

"Flitwick's been having me study them," he said at length. "Patronuses."

"Oh," said Hermione awkwardly.

"They all mean something, you know. About you. The different animals all have symbolism and things."

"That's very Freudian."

"Very what?"

"It's a Muggle thing."

"Oh. Well, it's supposed to tell things about who you are, and what you need, and what influences you. You know, psychology." He pronounced the word somewhat uncertainly.

She stroked the fox's head with her fingertip, or rather, moved her fingertip in a stroking motion above the silvery light, where she would have stroked it, had there been anything corporeal to stroke. "So, what does an arctic fox say about me?"

He blinked. "How d'you know what kind of fox it is? It's all silver."

"It hasn't any markings on it. You can see markings on Patronuses, they're just different shades of silver."

"Arctic foxes haven't got markings?"

Hermione shrugged. "I looked it up in the library."

Ron grunted, a noise that could have been amused or exasperated, or possibly both.

"Anyway," she said, "what does it say about me?"

He screwed up his face, trying to remember. "We didn't talk much about foxes. Flitwick was doing research about seals, for some reason, he had me reading all sorts of things for him and taking notes. But I remember it's cleverness and wisdom and stuff. Well, that shouldn't surprise anyone. It's just like you." He paused, to see if she would respond to the compliment. When she didn't, he pressed on anyway. "Then protection, which makes sense for any Patronus, and being a provider. Don't know so much about that one, for you. And slyness. You know, sly like a fox." He looked over at the fox, wrinkling his nose up. "Not a very Gryffindor sort of character trait."

"No," said Hermione softly. "I guess it isn't."

He kicked at a pebble, giving the fox another sidelong glance. "Does it remind you of anyone? Only I keep feeling like I ought to recognize it."

Hermione looked at it. It looked back at her, its small, glittering eyes focusing intensely on her face, its expression just like—

"No," she said. "Nobody. I don't think it reminds me of anybody at all."

0 0 0

Defense Against the Dark Arts was canceled, pending news about Professor Snape's chances for recovery. They were well ahead of the syllabus; Professor Snape was an apt and thorough teacher, and there were far fewer Potions accidents to delay things. None of the other Professors seemed to be particularly up for taking over his class, unless it became absolutely necessary. There was a general feeling amongst the students that, as long as nobody acted like Professor Snape was dead, he might pull through.

Hermione didn't know when it was that he'd become popular, but somehow it seemed that he had. At the very least, more than just the Slytherin students cared about his fate now. The news of his role in bringing about the downfall of Lord Voldemort had done a great deal to improve his standing in the eyes of the Wizarding community at large, and the idea that Draco Malfoy (for it had got out that he was the one who had led the ill-fated attack on the school) could kill a man who Voldemort himself had been unable to fell was one that nobody at Hogwarts wanted to contemplate.

Between Potions and Defense, Hermione suddenly found herself with a great deal of spare time. She tried to fill it with studying for NEWTs, but it was impossible to focus. Thoughts of Professor Snape, of Draco, and of her Patronus kept floating to the forefront of her mind and distracting her, until she would suddenly realize that she had sat for twenty minutes, reading the same page again and again, and still had no idea what it said.

In desperation, she put her books in her knapsack and headed for the Hospital Wing, where it was quiet. Madame Pomfrey had insisted that Hermione might still be prone to relapses, and made it clear that, should she ever need a space to relax, the Hospital Wing was open to her at any hour.

She opened the door to the Hospital Wing carefully and tiptoed in. Nobody was there but Professor Snape--or his body, at least. The curtain around his bed was half-drawn, leaving only his blanket-covered legs visible. There was not a sign of life in the room, except for the muffled sounds of birdsong outside. She held her breath, listening to see if she could hear him, but there was nothing.

She'd planned to simply sit in a chair with her studying, or maybe stretch out on a bed, well on the opposite side of the room from him. She wouldn't be distracted by the people in the Common Room and in the library, and if anything happened or changed, she'd be there to know about it immediately. Once she was there, though, the preternatural hush of the room seemed to act on her, and she wanted to be near someone else.

She wanted to be near_him_.

Glancing at Madame Pomfrey's office and satisfying herself that she wouldn't be seen and scolded or shooed away, she slipped behind the curtain, drawing it closed a little more. Professor Snape lay on his back, his arms crossed on his chest, hands laid atop each other. His face was waxy and white, his mouth just slightly open. If not for the reassuring movement of his chest, she would have thought he was already dead.

Not that he was going to die, she reminded herself. He was just busy recovering.

A chair, as always, sat beside his bed. Hermione guessed that she wasn't the only one who paid visits to Professor Snape while he lay unconscious, and the thought comforted her. It was good to know that he had friends. Setting her knapsack down beside the chair, she sat. She'd intended to study. She'd planned to work, to prepare for NEWTs, which were going to be upon her so soon.

Instead, she watched him, as she had done so many times after the Final Battle, when his prognosis was so uncertain. She had a vague sense of deja-vu. As she watched, she saw that his eyes had begun moving beneath his eyelids, and she wondered if he was dreaming.

In a fit of Gryffindor boldness and curiosity, she reached out and touched his cheek with her fingertips.

She'd half been expecting him to jerk awake at the touch, but he didn't. Instead, Hermione suddenly saw a flash of her parents' faces before her eyes, lying white and dead. She snatched her hand away, gasping as if she'd been doused with cold water. Of all the things she'd expected, that hadn't been it, and the stab of grief that accompanied the sight of her parents left her reeling.

His eyes were still moving, his dry lips still open. Seized with a morbid desire to see their blank faces again, and unable to contain her curiosity about his dream, she reached forward and touched him once more, this time curling her fingers around his.

She was prepared for the sight of her parents this time. They were laid out on their bed, almost exactly as she had last seen them, and Professor Snape was there. Except for their faces, though, they were still covered with blood, and naked, divested even of the last shreds of their torn, soiled clothes. Trying to see more clearly, Hermione realized that they weren't actually _on_ the bed at all. Professor Snape had levitated them several inches above it, to keep from soiling the coverlet as he cleaned their bodies.

He was cleaning their bodies.

He wasn't using magic, either. As she watched, he wrung out a washcloth into a small basin of water and lifted her mother's arm, cradling it tenderly in one hand and, with the other, beginning to wipe the blood and other bodily fluids from it. He kept his eyes carefully on his task, not looking at any other part of her body, which Hermione found comforting. With all of the blood caking her skin, it was difficult to tell that she was naked at all.

It took a long time to clean her body off. He was thorough and gentle, even prising the last flecks of dried blood from underneath the nails on her fingers and toes, and carefully combing out her hair. When her body was perfectly clean, he unfolded the clothes that Hermione remembered seeing her mother in when she'd gone to say goodbye, and began to dress her, slowly covering up the wounds and bruises that marred her skin nearly everywhere.

Hermione let go of his hand.

It was a dream. But it was such a real dream, and so many of his dreams (and hers, of late) had simply been memories that insisted on playing and re-playing themselves, much as they did during Hermione's waking hours. She couldn't look away from him. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that Professor Snape might have been the one to clean her parents' bodies, and laid them out so kindly after their death. It had seemed at the time like such an un-Snapelike thing to do that she'd simply assumed it was someone else. Considering it now, though, she realized how silly that was. He'd kept the house quiet, nearly empty--another considerate thing, she realized, given how traumatized she'd been. She doubted strongly now that he'd let Professor McGonagall and the Aurors so much as go up the stairs while she was asleep, let alone carry two bodies up and clean or examine them.

But why would he have done something like that for her? Of course, he'd known for months already about the enchantment, but he'd been so cold and standoffish, unwilling to even look her in the eye, let alone do something as kind and gentle as that. It showed him in a light that Hermione had never even imagined before. It was one thing to know that he'd loved Harry's mother, that he had a heart capable of great feeling. It was another thing entirely to know that he might ever tap into that more tender side of himself for her benefit, even if he did so in the deepest secrecy.

She found herself wondering if she would know it, were he to begin slipping away towards death. She wondered if she could pull him back again, if he did. Once, she'd been unwilling for him to die because it would have been unfair for someone who had done so much good to die such an ignoble, unjust death. Now she was unwilling because he was a part of her. She didn't know anymore what it would be like, not to have that strange undercurrent of... well... of _Snape_ inside of herself. Somehow, so much of him had been insinuated into her mind and heart that she didn't like the idea of having it taken away anymore. She was afraid of what it might do to her.

That thought was a frightening one. She stared at him, wanting to touch his smooth, white face, wanting to memorize it. What would she do, if she could never see it again? She rested her fingertips on his arm, taking care this time to touch his sleeve and not his bare skin. She didn't want to tap into his mind again. She wanted to store up her image of him in her heart, in case--just in case. She couldn't think of him dying, although the thought hovered terribly in the back of her mind. She let herself think only about treasuring up her memories of the lines of his face, the way that his wrist curved gracefully around his chest where it lay.

Treasuring. She thought of the lines that she and Harry had read on the tombstone back in Godric's Hollow.

"Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also," she whispered, remembering, and she felt that she understood the words more than she ever had before. She blinked hard, her eyes growing hot with tears. Hermione was tired of crying. She was tired of loss. She squeezed his arm, wishing that the pressure would wake him, would pull him out of the seemingly endless sleep in which he lay, while his body attempted to heal itself from yet another wound.

She didn't let herself think about her fear that perhaps his luck had finally run out. Perhaps he had been wounded too many times already to survive yet another wound, especially one so serious.

She had been slowly edging her chair closer to the bed without realizing it, until now her knees were pressed against the mattress, and she could smell the faint scent of his skin, still clean and warm-smelling in spite of almost four days lying in a hospital bed. Madame Pomfrey had been keeping him clean, of course, Hremione realized, and then she felt foolish for being surprised.

She let go of his arm and lowered her head, resting her cheek where her hand had been a moment before. His sleeve smelled good, although she couldn't identify the scent. It was something masculine, and subtle. She felt as if she could spend the rest of her life breathing that smell.

"Please," she whispered into his sleeve, so quietly that even she could barely hear it. "Please, Professor, you can't die. I need you."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Awww... romantic. What? I didn't say whether he lives or dies for sure?

Oh. Huh. Must've forgotten.

Keep your eyes peeled at my livejournal, http:// zeegrindylows . livejournal . com, for an announcement about two Christmas fics that I hope to have done in time for all of you to read before it's, you know, actually Christmas. If I'm slow about updates, that's why. It's because of your Christmas present, you ungrateful wretches.

Tee hee.


	57. And Who But My Lady?

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 57: And Who But My Lady?**

* * *

"You had a remarkably lucky escape."

Severus grunted noncommittally. It had indeed been a remarkably lucky escape, especially after his rank stupidity in allowing himself to be cursed in the back—with a curse _he'd_ invented!—by Draco Malfoy. Had it not been for Hermione, he'd have bled to death in the dungeons of Hogwarts. More and more often, it seemed that exsanguination was nearing the top of his list of talents.

Had it not been for Hermione, he could not be lying in the Hospital Wing and grunting at Poppy Pomfrey's attempts to engage him in conversation. Those attempts were failing precisely because he was thinking about Hermione far more than about anything else, and Hermione was the only thing that Poppy hadn't come out and mentioned directly.

Yet.

"I will say one thing," said Poppy, who had already said a great many things, "which is that it was the best thing that ever happened to you when that girl saved your life last year."

Severus very casually touched a bit of thread that had rolled itself into a tiny ball on top of the coverlet. "Hmm?" he asked, paying a little more attention, now that she was approaching the only subject that really interested him at the moment.

"Although I wonder," she continued musingly, "whether you're both going to simply keep trading life debts back and forth, or if more will ever come of it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, with a dignified sniff. "She is a more than exceptional Potions student, who is about to begin what promises to be a very successful apprenticeship."

"A fair trade for your soul," said Poppy, one corner of her mouth turning up slightly, "and quite a turnaround in your thinking. What ever became of the apprenticeship being a bad idea?"

He looked away. "It is a bad idea, but not because she is incapable."

"And nothing is going to come of the rest?"

"Of what?" he asked, but he frowned repressively. He had no interest in hearing her answer; they both knew already what her answer would be.

"Severus," she began, but whatever she planned to say, she thought better of.

"There is nothing to be said on the subject," he said.

"Are you so certain of that?"

He gritted his teeth. "Yes."

"There's so little time left before the end of term. Next year—"

"Is going to be very busy, and very full of academic pursuits for all in question."

Poppy finally appeared to take the hint, and Severus experienced several blessed minutes of quiet, which allowed him to gather his thoughts enough to nudge the conversation closer to what his own line of thought had been.

"Miss Granger's magical ability," he said slowly, "appears to have… functioned."

"Quite well."

"Is it still doing so?"

"She's a little rusty, but with a little practice she'll soon be back in her old form, I think."

"No lingering effects, then?"

"None that I have noticed, and if there are any that have bothered her, she hasn't mentioned them. She appears to be fully recovered."

"I see."

"I will say it yet again, Severus. You were very, very lucky."

"So it seems."

She looked as if she had more to say, but, although Severus waited several minutes, she did no more than sit and look at him, leaving him to think.

"Strange that it should happen when it did," he said softly, when thinking without speaking became too dangerous.

"Not so strange," said Poppy.

He turned away, pretending that he didn't know what she was implying. "I believe I shall sleep, Poppy. I have a very limited amount of time before I must return to my duties. Some rest would be pleasant, and I will get none of it while you sit here and nag."

"If you like, Severus."

"Have a House-Elf inform Miss Granger that I will require her to be present in my office tomorrow morning promptly at half past six."

0 0 0

Hermione awaited the advent of her serious apprenticeship duties with more than a little trepidation. She and Professor Snape had not spoken since the incident with Draco in the corridor, and she was unsure of what his reaction to it might be. Her life held no precedent to indicate the proper etiquette for dealing with someone whose life you have just saved by reading their mind. The fact that she shouldn't have been capable of doing anything to save it at all only complicated things more.

He was a study in contradictions. Sometimes he accepted or even embraced the idea of their enchantment. At other times, though, he was silent and hostile, and Hermione began to feel as if he was blaming her for everything in his life that he disliked--beginning, perhaps, with the fact that he was alive for it at all.

The mirror had convinced her that he was, indeed, a friend, but long experience with Ron had taught her not to expect that friendship would always mean kindness. He was an ally--but he had always been an ally, and during their years of distant alliance through the Order, he had rarely been kind. Perhaps he would be different now that she was his apprentice. Perhaps he wouldn't.

The door opened.

"Miss Granger," he said, bowing his head formally.

Hermione, acquainted (if only through books) with the proper customs, bowed in return.

"I am grateful to have had your assistance in... dealing with Mr. Malfoy," he said carefully.

"You're welcome, sir." She smiled, but said nothing else. Some instinct kept her quiet, and she was pleased when he nodded curtly, a look of relief passing fleetingly across his face. It was awkward for her and, she imagined, even more awkward for him to discuss the fact that she had saved his life again, and that this time he had nearly lost it by disregarding some of his own maxims about vigilance and safety.

"Let us begin," he said, rousing her from her thoughts. "You will follow me, Miss Granger. The wards must be re-set."

She followed him out of his office and through the dungeon. The path he was leading her down would lead directly past the room with the mirror, but just before they reached that door, he stopped. Hermione found herself relieved. There was no reason to think that he'd ask her about the room, but she never knew when he might catch a flash of insight into her thoughts, and for some reason, she didn't want him to find out that she'd appropriated it for herself.

"Here," he said, gesturing to a blank stretch of wall, "is the entrance to my private laboratory."

She nodded expectantly, keeping her mouth shut. What was there to say? He would explain soon enough.

"There is no incantation. With the tip of your wand, touch these five stones, in the following order--top, left, center, bottom, right."

"Top, left, center, bottom, right," she repeated, her eyes following his hand as he demonstrated. The wall melted away, revealing a large, dark wooden door.

"Give me your wand, Miss Granger."

Hermione handed it over and watched as Professor Snape inspected it, performing a series of complex movements and muttering under his breath. Then he set it down and did something to it with his own wand. She didn't remember ever reading about this particular method of changing wards, and when he handed her wand back to her and gestured that she should attempt to use it to open the door, she blinked in surprise.

"Isn't there a password, sir?"

He snorted. "Passwords can be guessed and overheard, Miss Granger. No, there is no password. The only way to gain access to my private laboratory is to open the doors with a wand that they will recognize, wielded only by that wand's proper owner.

"But what if there was an emergency?"

"The Headmistress and the matron are both recognized by the wards. We have things to do, Miss Granger. Open the door."

"What spell should I use?"

"Merely Alohomora. It is only locked."

Hermione, who had long since been able to do the spell nonverbally, unlocked the door. It clicked, and she tried the handle. Open. She raised her eyebrows, looking up at him.

"You doubt the strength of the wards."

"I don't, Professor. Not exactly, anyway. I just--they really work like that? Keyed to the wand, and the wand can only be wielded by its owner?"

"Correct. I will demonstrate." He pulled the door closed again and locked it, then handed her his wand. "Try again, with this."

The piece of ebony fit her hand almost as comfortably as her own wand, and she pointed it at the door and cast the unlocking spell again. The lock rattled and the door shook a bit, but nothing else happened. When she tried the handle this time, it did not give.

Professor Snape frowned. "Curious," he said.

"Sir?"

"It should not have responded to your use of my wand at all." He frowned, taking his wand back and studying it for a moment. Whatever he thought of it, however, he kept silent. He unlocked the door himself this time, turning the handle and pushing it open. "Enter." He stood back while she entered the lab, following her in and closing the door carefully behind.

It was not small, but neither was it ostentatious. It was well-lit and perfectly organized. Every surface was spotlessly clean, rows of empty vases, jars, and beakers lining the shelves. Everything was uniform and pleasingly sterile-looking, except for the single, small cauldron that bubbled steadily away in one corner.

Hermione loved it.

"You see here the main workroom," said Professor Snape. "The door to your right leads to a storage closet for ingredients, with a smaller cold-storage room beyond. The door to your left leads to a library, equipped with reference books, parchment, journals, quills, and any other items that might be necessary for labeling, note-taking, or log-keeping. While you are here, you will keep detailed notes and logs of everything that you do. Should there be some sort of accident, it is imperative to be able to analyze every step that led up to it."

She nodded dutifully. When he said no more, she took it as her cue to look around. The room resembled the Potions classroom in some respects, although it was laid out and equipped in a much more sophisticated way. Sets of knives, measuring cups, mortar-and-pestles, and various other tools were laid out or hung on the walls, and she was sure there would be more in the room to the left.

She walked forward, trailing her hand over the top of a table. A row of beakers glittered just in front of her, and she reached up to take one, turning it in her hands. It was hand-blown, as all the best were. Good potions required as much forethought and care in the matter of cauldrons, containers, and tools as they did in the preparation and mixing of ingredients.

"Miss Granger," he said suddenly, startling her so badly that she nearly dropped the beaker.

"Yes, sir?"

"I believe it is high time that we place the final seal on your apprenticeship."

She nodded again. "Yes, sir."

He opened a tall cupboard and removed a neatly wrapped package. She took a step closer. It was wrapped simply, in brown paper, tied with a bit of twine, and bearing the label of a purveyor of Wizarding robes in France. He placed the package on the table and, with one movement, untied it. The paper fell open, revealing a set of robes.

They were made in a color that Hermione couldn't quite identify. It might have been gray--but then again, it might not. For a moment, she thought it was white, but then it seemed more like shining silver. Looking at them made her eyes water.

He lifted the robes carefully again, leaving the paper behind on the table. "Your apprentice's robes," he said, presenting them formally to her, the odd, colorless fabric held in both his hands.

She reached out to take them, and couldn't help but notice that in addition to avoiding her eyes, he also was very careful to give her the robes without letting either of his hands so much as brush against hers. She wondered why. Was he angry with her, perhaps? Embarrassed? Was it something to do with the ceremony?

"Some Masters would require you to wear the colors of their own House during your apprenticeship. Although this is traditional, I have, after some consideration, decided against this, at least until after you complete your seventh year of school." His lip twisted in a way that, generously interpreted, might have passed for an ironic smile. "I am... not unaware of the nature of House politics, and I have no interest in dealing with an apprentice so distracted by social drama that she is prone to error, especially when it is so easily avoidable. These will change to the color of your choice when you first don them, and stay that way." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Consider your choice carefully, Miss Granger."

Hermione looked down at the robes in her hands, unsure of what she ought to say and do next, and wondering what color she ought to choose. It was clearly important, and it was very evident that he was expecting her to pick crimson or gold. Somehow, she didn't think she wanted crimson or gold. What did that leave her, though?

"I will expect you to wear these instead of your school robes from now on during your waking hours. They are far more adequately suited to the pursuit of Potions-making than standard-issue school robes could ever hope to be. As you will frequently be on call, and might need to come to this room at any moment to see to a potion, it is highly important that you always be dressed appropriately. Time is often of the essence."

His eyes swept briefly over her body, and then he looked away from her. "You may use the library, for some privacy."

"Oh," said Hermione, blushing without being entirely sure of why, although she suspected that it had something to do with her Potions Master talking about the fact that she would very soon be taking her clothes off, with nothing but a door separating them. She blushed even more at that thought, and made sure to keep her eyes averted, lest he get a hint of what was going through her mind. "All right, then," she mumbled.

Gathering up the fabric into one arm, she let herself into the library. It was as clean and well-organized as the lab itself had been. The walls were lined entirely with books, except for one tall writing-desk, which contained, as he had said, a great many quills and various forms of paper and parchment. A sturdy library table with one chair stood in the middle of the room. It was peaceful and completely silent.

She laid the robes down on that chair and looked around again, wondering if she would be allowed to use the room to study for NEWTs. Not that she needed it, she supposed. She already had a room that, in her mind, she had already begun to think of as her own. And this room had no mirror.

She immediately stopped that train of thought. She couldn't let herself think of the mirror while he was so close by. She still didn't understand what she'd really seen in it, and she didn't want him to discover that she'd seen anything at all.

Remembering that she was meant to be putting on her robes, she went and looked for a lock on the library door. There was none. She hadn't expected that there would be, although she'd hoped. Still, she could probably trust Professor Snape not to barge in while she was changing.

Hesitantly, doing her best not to think about the fact that the door separating them was unlocked, she took off her robes, folding them and hanging them carefully over the back of the chair. Then, shivering a little, she picked up the new, still-colorless robes.  
She had no idea what color they ought to turn.

But he would be waiting, and she didn't want to spend ages agonizing over the question. After a few moments' thought, she decided to simply put them on without thinking about a color at all. If they worked, as she guessed, along the same lines of magic such as that of the Sorting Hat or the Room of Requirement, they would be able to sense what the appropriate color would be, whether she asked for it specifically or not.

The fabric slid easily over her head, with all the fluidity of silk, although it appeared to be made of a very heavy, sturdy wool. She expected it to feel quite warm, but it was light and cool. Although she had not fastened or unfastened a single button, they fit her perfectly and, as she smoothed her hands down her front, she noticed that there _were_ buttons--nearly as many as Professor Snape's. The robes simply went on and off without them, although when she tried, she found that she could just as easily have put them on by unbuttoning and buttoning the fabric.

Between the color-change and the magical fit, she knew they must have cost a small fortune.

The cut was similar to Professor Snape's robes as well. There was a high, fitted collar that came nearly to her chin, protecting her neck. The sleeves, too, were fitted, which felt odd. She was so used to the flowing fabric of her school robes--but of course, those were a hazard in serious Potions-making, and she had frequently been frustrated by her sleeves while brewing in the past.

The only significant difference was that her robes had very clearly been designed for a woman, where his had not. She had no trousers--the robe covered her to the ankles--and he had embellished his with the flowing over-garment that billowed around him so impressively when he walked through the halls. Hermione was rather relieved that he hadn't included one of those for her.

She looked down to see the color.

Green.

She looked again.

Still green.

"Oh no," she said under her breath, fingering one of the buttons in the long row that marched down the front of the robes. It wasn't Slytherin green, now that she looked at it. It was not quite as dark, and there were flecks of golden-colored thread worked into it here and there. The more she looked at it, the more she liked it and thought it suited her. Ron was probably going to make her life a living hell, but she didn't care. Green was her favorite color, and for the first time in seven years, she had an excuse to wear it during term time without worrying. What Professor Snape would say, she didn't know--but she couldn't undo it now, and she doubted he'd be willing to pay any more just to give her robes in a different color. It wasn't Slytherin green, at any rate, so really, nobody had any call to complain.

She picked up her discarded school robes, and went to open the door to the lab.

0 0 0

Until the doorknob turned, Severus didn't realize how anxious he'd been to see what color she would choose. It was obvious to him that she didn't realize what a huge breach with tradition it had been for him to leave the decision up to her. At some point, his colleagues would find out, and he didn't relish trying to explain his reasons to them. Still, she deserved a chance to pursue her studies without undue haranguing from Weasley and her other friends. After everything else she had been through this year, with NEWTs so very close, he didn't like to think about adding still more to her burdens.

Then she came through the door, and he forgot to think about it.

They had cost a small fortune, but he had spent very little of his pay over the years, and it had accumulated steadily. It was his duty to provide robes for his assistant, and, given his reluctance to force her to wear a color not of her own choosing, he'd been more or less required to buy robes that would allow her some freedom of choice. The chance to give her a valuable gift without being questioned as to his motives had also been too good to pass up.

Still, he hadn't imagined even such expensive robes to look as good on her as these did. They were of the same make as his own, designed to magically fit, and of a nearly invincible fabric. Should she get into a Potions accident, she would be well-protected, if she wore the robes he had provided.

The high collar emphasized the slenderness of her neck, as the fitted sleeves emphasized her delicate wrists and fingers. In every respect, it flattered her. The sight of Hermione Granger in that dress eliminated from his mind any last vestige of feeling that she was more girl than woman. No mere girl could look like that.

He realized, a bit belatedly, that he'd been staring. She was looking at him expectantly and uncertainly, still clutching her black school robes to her chest, waiting for him to respond.

"Green?" he finally said, his voice sounding strange and unnatural in his ears. She chose green?

She looked embarrassed. "Yes."

"I specifically told you that you were not required to wear green."

She shifted her weight, the robes moving gracefully about her ankles. Her lip stuck out just enough to look defiant. "You didn't say I couldn't."

"I gave you very good reasons why I felt it would be inadvisable."

"Well I--I didn't pick it, exactly," she said, her cheeks red.

He raised his eyebrows, not trusting himself to speak. A single curl had escaped the knot of hair at the nape of her neck, and it lay on shoulder, distracting him. She was so beautiful that it took his breath away.

"I couldn't decide on a color, and you said I shouldn't wear Slytherin colors, but I don't really like Gryffindor colors. I don't think I could wear crimson every day, and I don't think I look very good in gold. So I thought I'd just put it on and let the robe choose."  
"Let the robe choose?" He looked at the robes again, glad of an excuse to tear himself away from the perfect curve of her shoulder.  
"Well, it seemed to me that robes that could sense what color I wanted them to be could probably sense that even when I wasn't sure myself--a bit like the Sorting Hat. So I just put them on, and this is the color they turned."

He sniffed. "A foolish and typically Gryffindor way to go about it. You are stuck with the color now. I will not provide new ones, simply because you--"

"I like green."

And Merlin, she looked well in it. "I am pleased that you choose to be philosophical about it."

"I_actually_ like green, Professor." She looked down at the robes, twisting her hips a bit to make the fabric swing out slightly from her legs. "And it isn't Slytherin green, you know."

"No," he said slowly, "it is not."

"Thank you, sir," she said.

When he inclined his head, his hair fell into his eyes, which he was glad for; it kept him from looking at her any longer. "I accept your thanks. However, they are unnecessary. It is my duty to provide robes to any apprentice in my service." He cleared his throat, his hand automatically coming up to rub the scar on his neck, as it so often did when he was unsure of what to say. "You will find that the fabric is much stronger than it looks. Although it appears heavy, it will not allow you to be too warm or too cold, and it will protect you from all but the most corrosive Potions and ingredients. It is flammable, but flame will not burn through it--it will merely burn on it, until it is put out."

"I don't know how to thank you, Professor--"

"It was my duty, Miss Granger," he said uncomfortably, aware that he had most certainly gone above and beyond what was expected. "No more will be said about it."

"Yes, sir."

"You are dismissed for breakfast, Miss Granger. I expect to see you here again one hour before dinnertime."

She nodded. "Thanks again, Professor." She tried to catch his eye, but he didn't let her do it, so she merely smiled shyly at him. "The robes really were lovely."

"Enough," he snapped, more sharply than he'd intended. "You are dismissed."

"I'm sorry, Professor," she said quickly, clutching her school robes more tightly to her chest and hurrying out, her cheeks flaming red.

It left him feeling rather an idiot. He hadn't intended to embarrass her, at least not so much that she ran away from him--although he'd certainly been _telling_ her to run away from him.

The door closed behind her, and, after allowing a few moments for her to get far enough down the hall that he wouldn't disturb her by following too closely, he made to open it again.

A glint of light in the corner of his eye stopped him. The beaker that she had picked up during her exploration of the room still sat on the table. He put his hand down on the tabletop, tracing with his fingers the path that hers had taken, until the smooth glass of the beaker touched his fingertips.

He picked it up. It was cool and smooth in his palm, and perfectly clear, except for the faintest of smudges where her fingers had rested. He held it up to the light, turning it slowly and straining to see better. Her fingers were very small--tiny, compared to his.

His heart gave a sudden wrench at the knowledge that she would never be his. Had he truly believed that he could bear it? To see her every day, to talk with her, to hear her voice, to know her very heart as if it were his own, and yet to be unable to call her his--it was torture already, and there was still so much of it left to endure.

He looked at the beaker again and then, giving in to a sudden, mad impulse, he found the spot marked by her fingertips and kissed it. His heart was filled with a passion both unfamiliar and frightening.

As he lowered the beaker again and caught sight of the great smudge that his mouth had left on the glass, that passion changed abruptly into shame. Had he no self-control? He tightened his grip convulsively on the beaker, and then threw it into the fire. It shattered into innumerable pieces, which fell onto the stone hearth with a clear, crystalline sound. Gathering his robes about him, his face set angrily, he fled from the room.

0 0 0

"Green robes?" Ron looked at her clothes with great distaste. "He's making you wear Slytherin colors?"

"He isn't _making_ me wear green; I told you that already," said Hermione irritably. "Besides, this isn't Slytherin green. They wear a different shade. This one is lighter and warmer."

"Green is green."

"Slytherins aren't the only people in the world who can wear the color green, Ronald, and this isn't even the shade that they wear."

"She's got a point," said Lavender from across the table, her attention having been caught by Hermione's change of robes. "It _is_ a different shade than the one that the Slytherins wear."

"You're crazy. It looks exactly the same."

Hermione frowned. "Well, you're wrong."

"I am not!"

"I'm telling you, this green isn't Slytherin green at all, and I happen to_like_ it. It suits me, and besides, green is my favorite color."

He set his toast down, frowning. "No it isn't. Your favorite color's gold."

"No, Ron, that's _your_ favorite. My favorite's been green since I was six and a half years old."

He blinked at her. "Really?"

"Really."

"Oh. Well, you really ought to tell people these things, Hermione. Anyway, they look bloody uncomfortable. Aren't you hot?"

It took her a moment to get over her surprise at his acquiescence. Then she shrugged, reaching up to touch the high collar that covered her throat. "No. They weren't just made to turn the color I picked when I put them on. They're also charmed not to get too hot or too cold, and to be protective against nearly all potions, too."

"Hang on," said Neville quickly, "they weren't green when you put them on?"

"I told you, he let me pick the color."

"Yeah," said Ron, "but I thought you meant he just let you pick out of a closetful or something. Robes that change color like that, they're really expensive. Even Harry would probably have to think twice about buying more than two or three sets."

"Speaking of which, where _is_ Harry?" asked someone behind them. Everyone turned around.

"Katie!" said Ron, jumping up and shaking her hand. "What are you doing here? Sit down. How are things going with the Harpies?"

Katie Bell grinned and took the offered seat. "They're going well. That's what I'm here about, actually. We're looking to draft a couple more junior players, and I've been sent to have a chat with your sister about coming to the trials."

Ron's eyes widened. "Ginny? Play for the Harpies? Brilliant! You're not pulling my leg, are you? Wow. Makes me wish I was a girl, eh?"

Katie's grin widened. "Yeah, I bet it does, a bit. Haven't got any idea where she is, have you?"

"Not the foggiest." Ron frowned. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen Harry either. They're probably off snogging somewhere."

"Bit early in the morning for it, isn't it?" Katie checked her watch. "It's not even eight."

He shrugged, but whatever it was he'd been preparing to say was cut off by the arrival of the mail. Countless owls flew through the open windows, filling the room with the noise of flapping wings. Hermione hadn't been expecting anything other than the newspaper, and so was surprised when a second, very handsome-looking owl swooped so sharply and so low that its wing nearly grazed her head as it went. It dropped a large, square, official-looking envelope in what had until very recently been her porridge, and was now an empty bowl with porridge clinging to its sides.

Two other owls nearly identical to the first had dropped envelopes as well. One landed in the center of the Gryffindor table. The other had fallen into Neville's bacon; he had already extracted the letter, and was now carefully mopping grease off of it with his napkin.

Ron leaned over her. "What is that?"

Hermione fished the envelope from her bowl. "It's from the Ministry," she said, surprised.

"It's a summons," said Neville, who had finished reading his already, "from the Wizengamot. Malfoy's having an expedited trial. They want us there this afternoon, as witnesses."

Ron snatched up the letter that lay in the center of the table. "This one's for Harry. Same thing, you think?"

"Probably," said Hermione vaguely, looking from her letter to the Head Table where Professor Snape, glaring at one and all, had just sat down, and was picking up his own Ministry envelope with a look of greatest distaste. "He helped catch him, after all, in the end."

"Malfoy?" asked Katie. From the bitterness in her tone, Hermione surmised that someone had let Katie know about Malfoy's role in her brush with death two years earlier. "They found him?"

"He tried to attack Hogwarts with a crew of Death Eaters," said Ron disgustedly, "the idiot."

"Pull the other one."

"I'm not joking. I think he must've gone a bit mad, really."

"Right," said Hermione, "well, that's yet _another_ day of classes I'm going to have to miss, and hours of studying, and it's almost time for NEWTs and I'm so far behind, I just--"

"Miss Granger," Professor Snape murmured at her elbow, "I see that you, too, have been invited to the Ministry this afternoon."

"And Neville and Harry, sir."

"Yes," he said, looking irritated, "Potter and Longbottom, as well. I have spoken with the Headmistress. You are excused from classes. I will be escorting you." He pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it. "Be ready to leave within two hours."

"Two hours?" Ron took Hermione's letter from her hands and scanned it. "She doesn't need to be there until twelve. That's stupid."

"Weasley, if I had any use whatsoever for your opinion, I would inform you of the fact. As it is, I do not. I have been asked to arrive at ten-thirty. As it is I who will be responsible for the well-being of the Hogwarts students at the trial, it is my schedule to which they must adhere." He was radiating irritation now, and Hermione exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Katie.

"Right," said Ron, with unusual docility, "sorry, Professor Snape."

He seemed more annoyed by this unexpected compliance than by anything else that had yet transpired, and he swept away without a word, glaring so viciously at a first-year Hufflepuff that she, apparently still sensitive to Professor Snape's anger even after nearly a year at Hogwarts, burst into tears.

"That was brilliant!" said Neville, as soon as Professor Snape was out of earshot. He'd been shaking with silent laughter, tears forming in his eyes. "He had no idea how to react!"

"Yeah," said Ron, grinning widely, "it worked even better than I thought."

"Nice one, Ron." Katie punched him on the arm, her grin matching his. "Wish I'd thought of that back when I was still here."

"Thought of what?" asked Harry, rather breathlessly. He was holding a laughing Ginny by the hand, and he glanced in her direction, catching her eye. They both broke into a fit of giggles.

"Where've you been?" asked Ron, eyeing them.

"Busy." Harry grinned mysteriously. "What do you wish you'd thought of, Katie? And what are you doing here? It's great to see you!"

Katie gave Harry a one-armed hug. "Being nice to Snape to get him to go away. I'm here for Ginny, actually. Official business, you might say."

"Official business?" repeated Ginny slowly. "What d'you...?"

"I've been sent to invite you to try out for the Harpies, at your earliest convenience. They need a few new reserve players, and they've heard from someone or other that you're worth having a look at."

"From someone," said Ron, his grin getting so wide that Hermione felt sympathy pains in her face, "meaning you, eh?"

"Maybe." Katie smirked. "Anyway, Ginny, what do you say?"

"I'll have to ask Harry," said Ginny, with a demure look in Harry's direction, and a mischievous smile.

"Eh? It's not Harry's business. S'not like you're married." Ron snorted. "Although, it isn't as if Harry's going to complain about you going to play Quidditch anyhow."

"True." Harry drew Ginny closer. "But you're wrong on one thing. We are married."

A profound silence followed. Neville caught Hermione's eye, his eyebrows raised in inquiry. She shrugged helplessly, looking to Ron with the same expression and receiving the same response. Katie was looking from Harry to Ginny and back again, trying to determine whether they were joking or not.

"I... don't understand," said Ron slowly. "What?"

"Just got back from London. We spent the night at the Leaky Cauldron. Didn't fancy McGonagall catching me trying to sneak up to Ginny's room on our wedding night."

"Go on." Ron's gaze moved to his sister. "You are not."

Ginny beamed and held up her hand, showing them all the plain wedding band that adorned her finger. "Are too," she said, smirking.

"But--but what'll _mum_ say, Ginny?"

Ginny shrugged defiantly. "She loves Harry, you know that. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time. And I've never wanted a big wedding. Bill and Fleur will have to be enough for her. The last thing I want to be doing is scrubbing the Burrow from top to bottom just so mum can impress a bunch of people who have seen it even when it _doesn't _look like we own an army of House-Elves. It's simpler this way."

"Yeah, but you didn't even ask anybody!"

"Harry asked _me_," she said, a trifle defensively, "and I said yes."

"But Ginny--why?"

Ginny and Harry exchanged a look. "Well," she said, "if you must know, Fred had this idea for a funny little joke, you know--a chastity spell. No shagging till I'm married, you see. He said he was going to lift it when Harry came back, but..." Her grip on Harry's arm tightened slightly. "Anyway, there's still a war on, we're both still targets. We're both of age, and we know we don't want to end up with anyone else, so why wait?"

"Because you're not out of school yet, that's why! Because mum and dad would like to be there! Because--because Fred playing some stupid joke on you and then not being around to undo it is a bloody stupid reason to get married!"

"Oh, I see, so you disapprove, then?" said Ginny coldly. "Well I don't much care. Harry and I are married, and there's not a thing you can do about it."

"I didn't say I disapprove!" Ron's hands grasped helplessly at empty air. "I'm just... surprised," he ended lamely.

"Well, _I_ think it's brilliant," said Neville, standing up and extending his hand to Harry, who took it and shook it, beaming as brightly as Ginny had.

"Thanks, mate. I'm pretty pleased about it."

"Yeah," said Hermione, finally recovering her voice enough to speak, "congratulations. Wow. Married. Really married?"

Harry smirked. "Really married."

"Wow."

"Yeah." Harry sighed, looking down at Ginny with great satisfaction. "Anyway, Katie, what's this about the Harpies? That's brilliant. No more than she deserves, of course--"

"Of course," said Katie. "We're holding trials in the next--"

"Wait!" said Ron, "I nearly forgot. Harry, you've got a letter from the Ministry. You've got to testify at Malfoy's trial today."

"What?" Harry's eyes found the letter lying on the table. "Today? He got arrested less than a week ago."

"They expedited the trial," said Neville. "Can't really blame them, can you? Malfoy's a big name, and they brought in a load of Death Eaters with him, too. Shacklebolt might be better than Fudge and Scrimgeour, but he can't ignore the fact that it's excellent publicity."

"When are we leaving?"

"Snape's escorting us at ten."

"So it's you, me--"

"And Hermione," said Neville, nodding in Hermione's direction.

"'Course," said Harry. His gaze followed Neville's and he met her eye questioningly. "You going to be okay with this?"

Hermione swallowed, trying not to actually think about it. "Sure, Harry. I'll be fine."

0 0 0

"I do not need any more Blood-Replenishing Potion, Poppy," said Severus, sorely tempted to pull his hand out of hers before she was done taking his pulse.

She raised her eyebrows. "Of course you'd think so. I'm surprised you came back at all."

"I am not here to be cosseted, although I did promise to return to allow you to examine me once more, and I am a man of my word. I am here to fetch a Calming Draught."

"For yourself, or for someone else? Turn around, dear, and let me have a look at your back."

"For Miss Granger."

Poppy made a clucking noise. "Unbutton your robes. I can't check the scars through your clothes, no matter how much you wish I could. Why didn't you just send her here for it yourself?"

"She does not need it yet."

"Yet?"

"Merlin, woman! Your hands are freezing!" he shuddered as her fingers touched the sensitive new scars on his back.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's so chilly here in the mornings. There, does that hurt?"

"No."

"That?"

"No."

"How about there?"

He winced. "A little."

"Mm." There was a soft little _pop_ as she pulled a cork from a bottle of salve and began to rub it into the scar. "What does she need the potion for, Severus?"

"She will be testifying at Draco Malfoy's trial today. I confess, I am rather surprised that you were not called to testify yourself, given her... injuries, and your knowledge of them."

Her hand left his back for a moment while she put more salve on it. "I doubt they know I'm acquainted with them. I might yet be called on. Do you expect it to last more than a day?"

"I will be surprised if we are not back in time for dinner, Poppy."

"Ah." She sighed. "It's always the most promising ones, it seems. Poor little boy. There. Now, just hold still while I bandage it back up. There's going to be scarring, but I've done what I can to reduce it."

"Thank you."

She clucked again, patting him on the shoulder. "Go ahead and put your robes back on. I'll go fetch that potion. Do you think I ought to come along, just in case?"

"Perhaps."

"Of course, if I do go, there's going to be a horrible accident in one of Horace's classes, and I'll be needed. Still, I'd like to try to be there. I believe I shall speak to Minerva about it."

He looked up from his robes as he finished buttoning them back up. "I am sure that Miss Granger would be grateful for your support."

"And you, Severus?"

He stood up, taking the vial of Calming Draught that she held out to him. "I am also grateful that you will be there for her. I will need to focus, and I confess that I am... easily distracted, when she is distraught."

"Of course you are. You're in love with her."

He stiffened. "Poppy--"

"But that isn't what I meant. She wasn't the only one I was thinking of supporting."

"I need no such aid."

"If only because it will be difficult to watch her relive those events again, Severus. Yes, I believe I will go along. There you go, you're all patched up--as right as I can make you, at any rate. What time do you plan to leave?"

He tucked the vial into his robes. "Ten o'clock."

"Well, you may expect me to be one of the party. Minerva can spare me for a few hours. I can always be fetched, if there's a really great emergency."

"Poppy," said Severus, looking down at her gravely.

"You have something disapproving to say, I see."

"Do not speak of Miss Granger and I in that--of--I would prefer that it not be mentioned."

"I will take that into account, Severus, but you might as well know right now that I plan to ignore your preferences at my convenience--and, furthermore, that there is nothing you can do about it."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Ok, so, this took far longer than anticipated to finish. Two weeks! I seriously doubt there will be another such delay, however. It's all the fault of Christmas, you see. With all the rush to finish at least one of my two Christmas fics, and then having family here for a week, there wasn't much time for writing.

I expect 58 to arrive much sooner.


	58. Hard Labor

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 58: Hard Labor**

* * *

The courtroom was filled to capacity, every seat occupied except for those in the front row, which a small sign declared to be reserved for witnesses. Severus, quickly taking stock of the assembled crowds and of Hermione's sudden white face and palpable surge of panic, ushered his charges into their seats. "I'll be back in a moment," he muttered to Poppy. "Try and keep her calm." 

She nodded, and he went to find Kingsley.

It took him several minutes to push, jostle, and elbow his way through the crowd of witches and wizards packed around Kingsley. When he did finally make it through, the Minister's face broke into a wide smile, and he extended his hand.

"Oh thank goodness, Severus, you made it. I am so very relieved!" He looked around. "Are the rest of the witnesses from Hogwarts here? There are so many people, we're finding it incredibly difficult to keep track of--"

"Yes," said Severus, his voice tightly controlled to hide at least some of his fury. "Shacklebolt, what is going on? I have a student here who will be asked to testify about a... most intimate and violent assault, and we were given to understand that this would be a closed trial. This--" he gestured at the huge assembly "--is not what I was led to anticipate."

Kingsley's face fell, growing as grave as it had previously been cheerful. "Severus, I had no choice. I am not a member of the Wizengamot. I did all that I could, but things have changed. The Minister no longer has the authority to simply demand that things go a certain way, and the head of Wizengamot felt that the publicity would be very important. The Malfoy name is well-known. Lucius is already in Azkaban, and Narcissa under house arrest, as you well know. He will bring many Death Eaters down with him--it is a great victory."

"I don't care."

"There was nothing I could--"

But they were interrupted by a small, round wizard in glasses, who had stood up in the center of the room to announce that the trial was beginning.

"Ah, very good," said Kingsley, not looking any more cheerful. "I must take my seat, Severus, as must you. Again, I am truly sorry--more than I can express, in fact. She is, as you know, someone who is personally known to me as well as to you. If you like, I can have a healer fetch some Calming Draught."

Severus glanced over at Hermione, who was sitting very still, her eyes fixed on the floor. Poppy was whispering something in her ear and, like a distant echo, he felt a ripple of reassurance move through his mind.

"No," he said. "Madame Pomfrey is here, and we are already provided with all the Calming Draught we need." He turned his eyes back to Kingsley, frowning. "We anticipated that she would be distraught merely from giving testimony before the Wizengamot. This is more than we planned for. Surely you could have communicated about this."

"We have been arguing it up until the very last moment, Severus. I am sorry."

They broke off from one another, Kingsley seating himself in the chair reserved for the Minister of Magic, and Severus returning to the bench where Poppy, Hermione, Harry, and Neville Longbottom sat. He did not look forward in the slightest to the emotional turmoil that would surely accompany Hermione's attempt to give her testimony before what essentially represented the whole of Wizarding Britain. He gritted his teeth and risked a glance at her, turning his head as little as possible to keep the look from being noticed. She hadn't moved since she'd first sat down.Perhaps that was a good thing.

The doors opened and Draco entered the courtroom, escorted by a guard of three Aurors and bound hand and foot. He looked thin and dirty. He looked lost. Severus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had not been in this courtroom for many years--not since his own trial, well before his erstwhile godson was even able to lift his head on his spindly, infant neck without help from Narcissa or Lucius. Dumbledore had been there then, to step in and defend him, to justify the ways of Severus Snape to the Wizengamot and to the world. But Draco had no Dumbledore to do that for him.

They sat Draco in a large, heavy chair, and chains immediately slithered up its sides and bound him to it. His shoulders slumped, pulled down by their weight. Severus' stomach clenched in sympathy. Draco hadn't seen him, but it was only a matter of time--and what could he do? He was the only person left in Draco's life who might by some distant stretch of the imagination be willing to step up and protect him, and he was there to do the very opposite instead.

Severus loved his godson. Draco, however, in spite of all of his dearest hopes and in spite of the many opportunities he'd been offered, had never given him even the smallest justification for that love. There was simply not enough evidence to suggest that trying to protect him would do anybody involved a single shred of good.

A voice rang out through the courtroom: "Draco Claudius Malfoy, you are hereby charged, as a known Death Eater, with the rape of Hermione Granger, the torture and attempted murder of Lee Jordan, the attempted murder of Severus Snape, and an assault made on Hogwarts castle with violent and murderous intent."

Draco's already white face whitened still further, but he said nothing.

"How do you respond to these charges, Malfoy?" Prometheus Druce, head of the Wizengamot, leaned forward slightly, gazing down like a cat at a cornered mouse.

Draco swallowed. "I--don't send me to Azkaban," he whispered.

"I see," said a voice from the crowd of witches and wizards who sat on high, judging him. "Practically an admission of guilt right there."

"I don't admit anything!"

"Percy Weasley," said Druce, "do you come to bear witness?"

"I do," said Percy, who sat at the opposite end of their row of seats.

As Percy advanced towards the witness' chair that already awaited him, Severus just caught a whisper from Harry to Hermione that he'd never heard the formal calling of a witness at the Wizengamot before. No wonder, really. Kingsley had instituted many changes indeed. Most of the Death Eaters of Severus' generation had been tried without an opportunity for witnesses to be called on either side; it was considered superfluous. It was so simple back then, before Severus had come along to muddy up the waters of their certainty--Dark Mark, bad. No Dark Mark, good.

"You attest to the veracity of your statements before this court?"

"I do."

"What is your relationship to Draco Malfoy?"

Severus watched Percy squirm in his seat and realized, with something of a shock, that Percy was about to reveal his Death Eater status. Again, he was forcibly reminded that these testimonies were being given before the whole world, instead of in a closed court. He scowled, a general feeling of ill-will towards the Ministry at large beginning to come over him.

"We were at school together," Percy said slowly, "and we have associated in what you might call a social sense since I left Hogwarts."

"A social sense?"

Percy's eyes flickered in the direction of his parents, who sat very close to the front of the courtroom, their ginger-colored hair making them stand out in the crowd of brunettes and blonds. "We met at Death Eaters' meetings called by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

As Severus had all too easily anticipated, a gasp rose from the audience. Dictaquills scratched madly over parchment in the press corner, and even the members of the Wizengamot appeared to be completely taken aback.

"You met him in the presence of--of You-Know-Who?"

"Yes," said Percy, with a calm that was a little too obviously forced.

"How did you come to be there?"

"I was--" Percy stopped, looking again at his parents and swallowing, his tongue sneaking out to swipe at his dry lips. "I was a Death Eater."

What had been a murmur of whispers grew until it was nearly impossible for Severus to hear himself think. Everybody was talking, every eye fixed on either Percy or his parents. Ministry officials, especially those whose robes matched those that Percy wore to work every day, began to look very uncomfortable indeed, no doubt wondering what information about them might have been compromised.

Somehow, above the noise, Severus heard Hermione sigh.

And just like that, his attention left Percy and the rest as completely as if they weren't there at all. Pretending to look at the Weasleys, he instead looked at Hermione. She had lifted her head and was looking straight ahead, directly at Draco, the full force of Gryffindor courage expressed, he thought, in every curve and angle of her body. The green fabric of her robes complemented her skin perfectly. Merlin, she was beautiful--remote and untouchable, but beautiful.

But still, she had sighed, and he knew what she was thinking. Her turn to speak would come soon enough, and even if her revelation would rock the Ministry less, even though it would be far less shocking, in one sense, it would be far more difficult for her than anything Percy might be enduring. He remembered the vision that had prompted him to disown Draco in the first place. Would it flash before her eyes as she tried to speak? Would it flash before _his_ eyes? The first time he'd seen it, he had been able to think only of his disgust and fury. Now, as he looked at her, he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and shield her from all of this.

What right did the Rita Skeeters and Molly Weasleys of the world have to look into Hermione's heart and see the way that it had been torn apart? Some of the Death Eaters in Azkaban, he knew, would get their hands on copies of _The Daily Prophet_, and they would read of her testimony and gloat over it. His leg twitched, his knee bouncing restlessly under the hand that he rested on it. All of them would be looking at her, listening to her--staring at her like she was some sort of entertainment. Of course they would. None of them knew that Severus Snape harbored a passion for her so intense that it lingered in him like a physical illness.

The urge to take her into his arms and bodily remove her from their scrutiny was almost unbearable. The more he looked, the more he could see the telltale signs of her anguish--the tightness in her jaw, the way that her fingers tapped nervously on her thigh, the abstract expression on her face that told him that she wasn't really listening to Percy's testimony at all.

And then Poppy looked over at him and laid her hand on his forearm, and shook her head. "No, Severus," she whispered, though not without sympathy.

He drew himself up in his seat, scowling at her. He wanted to come up with a scathing retort, some cutting remark that would shut her up and shut her out, but nothing came to him. He satisfied himself with ignoring her and simply looking ahead, returning his attention to the trial.

Lost in thought, he'd missed the whole of Percy's testimony. Percy was already halfway back to his seat, and Druce was shuffling a pile of parchment and clearing his throat self-importantly. Draco was staring mutinously at Percy's back, and it was more than obvious from his expression that, had he a wand to hand, Percy would have been the greatest fool in the world to turn his back on him.

"Severus Snape," Druce said, and Severus stood up, careful not to take one last look at Hermione before going down to sit in the center of that courtroom for the second time in his life, "do you come to bear witness?"

"I do," he said, not bothering to say it loudly enough for all in the room to hear. The Wizengamot themselves could hear it. The rest could go hang. He sat down, trying to ignore his discomfort with being there at all.

"What is your relationship to Draco Malfoy?"

Severus looked over at Draco, who was watching him with a morose, sullen expression. "I was his Professor and Head of House at Hogwarts for six and one-half years. I was also his godfather, from the time of his birth until this past December."

"And at that time, what happened?"

Again, he consciously did not look at Hermione. "I discovered that he had made a vicious attack on another student at the school during his fifth year, one that could have resulted in her death, and that caused great pain and suffering. I found it unacceptable, especially taken in light of subsequent behavior that proved it was not an isolated incident." He looked down at the floor, trying to ignore the hundreds of eyes that watched him. "I disowned him."

"You were a Death Eater, were you not?"

He tried not to flinch, and mostly succeeded. "In my youth."

"But you continued, like Percy Weasley, to pose as one, up until the fall of Voldemort?"

"Yes."

"You had ample opportunity, then, to observe Malfoy's behavior?"

"Enough. I had, I confess, harbored some hopes that he'd experienced a change of heart when his family fell out of favor with the Dark L--with You-Know-Who. There were some indications to that effect--but, those have since been proved to have been misleading."

"And it was this final revelation that fixed your opinion of his character?"

"When I found him to be unrepentant, yes."

"And what was it, exactly, that he did?"

He would _not_ look at Hermione. "He committed a brutal rape of another student, one who was already injured and weak."

"And who was that student?"

He wouldn't look. He would not look. To look would be to see her face, to see the pain that would surely show in her eyes, pain that affected her so strongly that it was coursing through his very soul in that moment. To look would be to give his secret away to the world, for how could he hide his love for her when she was suffering so acutely? "It was Hermione Granger."

"Is she present in this courtroom?"

"She is."

"Very well. You are dismissed, Professor. Hermione Granger, do you come to bear witness?"

They passed each other as he returned to his seat and she rose to take the witness' chair that he had just vacated. He could have brushed his hand against hers, she was so close--but he didn't dare, and then she was gone, and he had somehow got himself into his seat, and she was saying "I do," and sitting down herself, tense and afraid, but sitting straight and tall.

"Merlin," he whispered, feeling that there was nothing else to say.

"She's handling it better than I thought she would," said Poppy.

"Perhaps."

"A very strong young woman."

He looked away. "Yes."

"You were injured during your fifth year in an encounter with Death Eaters, Miss Granger?"

"Yes." Just above the collar of her green robes, he could see the vein in her neck pulsing, faster and faster.

"And when you returned to Hogwarts, you were attacked again?"

"I--yes."

"By Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"Please describe the attack."

"Describe it?" Her voice shook slightly.

"In detail, if you would be so kind."

And she described it--in detail. She had to stop several times, choking on her own words. Her hands shook uncontrollably, until Severus had to close his eyes in order to force himself to stop looking at them. The desire to touch her, to hold her, was constant and demanding. Her hands would fit so easily inside of his. He could cover them, could hide that shaking weakness from everybody but himself.

Druce took longer to question her by far than he had anyone else. It seemed hours before she was allowed to totter back to the front row of chairs, where Harry had to help her into her seat. Poppy had the Calming Draught open and ready, and she pressed it into Hermione's hands before she was even properly settled in her chair. Her hands were still shaking as she raised the bottle to her lips and drank it down. Then Harry was called up to speak, and she slumped back in her chair, the Calming Draught already affecting her muscles, forcing her to relax.

She had remained dry-eyed throughout her questioning, but now there were silent tears slowly sliding down her cheeks.

He didn't listen when they questioned Harry, or when Neville was called up to speak. He barely registered the passing of time at all. He was too busy trying to sort out in his mind which were her feelings and which were his. She had drawn her legs up so that her heels rested on the seat of her chair, her arms wrapped around her knees, and her head on Poppy's shoulder. The few times that he risked taking a look at her, she appeared nearly asleep, except for the fierce, angry expression behind her half-lidded eyes when she looked at Draco.

"Lee Jordan!" called Druce, and another murmur rose from the crowd, although this one was confined to those who'd known of Lee's attack and subsequent confinement at St. Mungo's. "Bring Lee Jordan in!"

Again, the doors opened and, again, a young man entered the courtroom, escorted by Aurors. This one, however, sat in a Muggle wheelchair that was being pushed by a Healer wearing St. Mungo's robes. He was draped in a blanket, his wasted arms, which ended in bandage-covered stumps, resting uselessly on his lap. Occasionally a twitching shudder ran through him. Severus remembered Auror Proudfoot's briefing at Grimmauld Place so many months ago. Cruciatus, multiple times. _Reducto_ on his hands and feet. Dislocation of all his joints. Torture, and near-death.

As he was wheeled to the center of the room, the blanket that covered his legs moved slightly, revealing stumps at his ankles that matched those on the ends of his arms.

"Lee Jordan," Druce said, looking more than a little horrified, "do you come to bear witness?"

Lee nodded, taking a rasping breath through his slightly parted lips. The courtroom had gone silent.

"Jordan, can you speak?"

Lee shoook his head and opened his mouth wide, tilting his head so that all could see. His tongue, atrophied from lack of use, was affixed to the roof of his mouth. Saliva gurgled in his throat when he breathed, and his face twisted horribly with his attempts to swallow it. Severus, remembering the laughing, jovial student who had spent so many hours serving detentions in the dungeons, had to look away.

"Is it true that you were tortured?"

Lee nodded.

"Your parents murdered?"

Another nod.

"Do you expect to recover your power of speech?"

There was a pause, and Severus, making himself look at Lee again, saw the rapid blinking of his eyes and the glittering in their whites before, slowly, he shook his head.

"You have lost both hands and both feet, correct?"

Another nod. There was no noise at all in the courtroom, except for Lee's raspy breathing, an occasional creak of wood as someone readjusted themselves on the ancient courtroom benches, and the constant scratching of the dictaquills.

"But you will be able to obtain prosthetics?"

Lee glanced at his healer, who nodded. He nodded in turn.

"And did you recognize your assailant?"

Lee's Adam's apple bobbed as he managed to swallow for the second time since he'd entered the courtroom. He was thin, painfully thin. Severus imagined it was difficult to eat with your tongue permanently stuck to the roof of your mouth. Lee nodded. From the look on his face, it was painful.

"I am given to understand that there was more than one person involved. Is this correct?"

Still another nod.

"One is deceased, yes? Damien Wilkes?" Druce barely waited for the answering nod before he continued, this time. "And the other? Can you point him out for us?"

Slowly, and with great effort, Lee raised one shaking arm and pointed its stump at Draco, who groaned and slumped even deeper into his chair. The chains adjusted themselves around him, so that he couldn't straighten up again even if he tried.

The head of the Wizengamot looked down at a piece of parchment in his hand, and then looked at Draco. His eyes glittered coldly, and then he smiled at Lee.

"Jordan, have you any other injuries besides those I have already questioned you about?"

Again the nod, and this one seemed even unhappier than the rest.

"Are you willing to show these to the court?"

Still another nod. Severus winced on Lee's behalf. Every movement was obviously painful, and even answering these simple yes or no questions was obviously beginning to exhaust him already. Now the healer, at a gesture from Druce, was moving around the wheelchair and carefully folding down Lee's blanket. Now she was unfastening his robes and slowly drawing them apart, tucking them aside so that all could see the blackened, raised scars and welts that covered his chest.

The Dark Mark, burned into his flesh with fire.

From his left side, Severus heard a choked noise, and glanced in that direction just enough to see Hermione, roused momentarily from her potion-induced stupor, place her hand on Harry's arm to restrain him, much as Poppy had so recently done for Severus.

"Ah. I think--I--that is enough. Jordan, you are dismissed." Druce, who was an aged and venerable-looking wizard, seemed transfixed by this latest revelation, but also looked as if he might vomit. "Thank you for your... testimony, Jordan."

Except for a few low whispers as he was slowly wheeled from the room, everybody in the courtroom kept silent until Lee was gone. Then the whispering and muttering broke out in full force again. None of it was distinguishable from the rest, but there was an overall tone to it that told Severus all too clearly what they thought. Draco's fate was sealed.

"I think we have heard far more than enough, Druce," said one of the witches close to the back of the Wizengamot. "No more. This is appalling."

"I agree with you," he said softly, looking down once more at his pile of parchment. "Malfoy, have you anything to say for yourself? Anything at all?"

Draco looked at them, and to Severus he seemed small and young and frightened. He wished yet again that he could protect him somehow. But there was nothing for it. Nothing could be done for him. He seemed to know this, for he shrugged and looked away again. "No," he said, completely defeated.

"Those in favor of ruling Draco Malfoy guilty as charged, raise your wand hands."

All but two or three raised their hands.

"Those in favor of ruling him innocent?"

The last two or three--and, now that he counted, he knew for sure that it was three--raised their hands, Dolores Umbridge among them. The sooner that Kingsley found a way to relieve her of her position without violating Ministry rules about tenure and hiring policies, the happier Severus would be.

"Very well. Draco Claudius Malfoy, the Wizengamot finds you guilty of the crimes of which you were accused. In light of your youth, and the lack of a unanimous conviction, it is my verdict, as head of the Wizengamot, that you will be sentenced to seven years in Azkaban. After those seven years are complete, you will be placed on probation for five years, or until you are declared a non-risk by a Ministry-assigned probations officer, whichever comes first."

"No!" shouted Harry, jumping to his feet.

"Harry!" whispered Neville fiercely, grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him back down, "shut up. There's nothing you can do about it now. It's already been made official!"

"But it's bollocks!" said Harry, barely managing enough self-control to keep his voice down. "Seven years? _Seven_? After everything he's done?"

"I know, Harry. I _know_, okay? But there's nothing we can do about it."

"Just wait till he gets out," said Harry darkly. "I'll make his life so miserable, he'll _want _to go back to the Dementors."

"Shut up, Harry. Just let it go."

"Let it go? Neville, what are you bloody on about? He's a Death Eater! He--" Harry glanced over his shoulder at Hermione and, without an ounce of subtlety, dropped his voice to a genuine whisper "--you just heard about all the things he's done to... people."

Neville sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I know. I was here too. I don't like it any more than you do, but this is how the Wizengamot works. There's nothing we can do. Come on, let's go."

Poppy and Harry helped Hermione to her feet, and then all began to thread their way through the crowds and out the door. A group of reporters was waiting for them, cameras and quills at the ready. Flashes began to go off in their faces before they were even all the way out into the hall.

"Harry Potter! How does it feel to have put yet another Death Eater behind bars?"

"Huh?" said Harry blankly.

"Longbottom, have you thought about becoming an Auror, like your parents? Did you testify because of what happened to them?"

"Harry, is it true that Lee Jordan was one of your best friends at Hogwarts before he left school? Tell us how he's feeling about all of this."

"Professor Snape, are you at all concerned about your position at Hogwarts, now that your past has been brought into the limelight?"

"Hermione, are you upset by the length of Malfoy's sentence?"

But this last question was the last straw for Severus, and he stepped in front of his students, shielding them with his body and a particularly fierce, angry expression. More than half of the assembled reporters and photographers had once been students of his, and they retreated instinctively. Any student of Severus Snape's knew that look, and knew that it meant trouble for them.

"Enough," he said coldly. "There will be no statements issued by any Hogwarts students or staff at this time. If you want a quote, get it from the Minister, or from Prometheus Druce."

He shouldered his way roughly past them and, with Poppy's help, ushered his charges up the hallway and into a lift. They stood in silence as it carried them upwards towards the Lobby. Harry was too angry, Neville too pensive, and Hermione too miserable to speak. Severus, who never spoke to students if he could help it, needed no excuse for silence, and Poppy kept her peace simply because there was nothing to be said.

They maintained their silence as they Apparated back to Hogsmeade, and as they made the walk back up to the castle. Only when they had gone through the open doors into the Entrance Hall did anyone speak.

"Miss Granger," said Severus, "in light of the day's events, you are excused from your apprentice duties this evening. I will expect you in the laboratory tomorrow morning at the same time as before, and I would prefer if you did _not_ use this evening for study. Your health is now a matter of interest to me, and it is highly apparent that you need rest."

"Yes, Professor," she said quietly, ignoring his attempts to telegraph with his eyes how desperately worried he was about her. Had she seen it and responded somehow, perhaps he might have tried to find some way to offer her comfort--a cup of tea, another dose of Calming Draught, _something_. But she didn't see it, or if she did, she didn't understand. She simply nodded and took Harry's proffered arm, beginning to walk heavily up the stairs.

No, he thought. Of course she didn't. What reason would she possibly have to expect that he might wish to offer her comfort?

Poppy was trying to catch his eye now, but he found he had nothing to say, and no desire to listen to anything she might be interested in discussing. He turned and left, seeking out the comfort and quiet of his own rooms.

0 0 0

Hermione, emotionally exhausted and left sleepy from the Calming Draught, laid down on a couch in the Common Room and closed her eyes. Around her, she could hear her friends and Housemates talking, asking Harry and Neville about the trial. To her unending relief, they had stationed themselves directly in front of her. Most of them didn't know yet what Hermione had testified about, but it would be common knowledge within twenty-four hours, and she didn't want to deal with it.

She drifted in and out of sleep for what felt like maybe an hour, maybe two. It was late in the afternoon when she finally woke up, and the crowd of curious Gryffindors had dissipated, for the most part. Neville was sitting in a corner, reading an Herbology text; Harry and Ron were nowhere to be found. Warm, sunset light illuminated the carpets on the floor. She lay still, looking up at the ceiling, resting.

"Are you awake?" Neville laid his book down, looking at her.

"No."

"Liar."

"Yes, then. What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "Six."

"I've been asleep for a while."

"Yeah, a few hours."

"Is everyone else eating dinner?"

"Yeah. Harry wanted to wake you up, but you looked like you needed the sleep."

"I was tired."

"I bet."

"Are you going to eat? I wasn't hungry, so I thought I'd stay behind, but if you're hungry, I could walk you down to dinner."

Hermione thought for a moment, taking stock of her body. There was no reason, physically, to feel unwell. She'd had a long, refreshing nap. She was calm--although, admittedly, she was also horribly stressed. She was also, she realized, definitely not hungry.

"I don't think I'm going to eat, Neville. Actually, I think I might go down to the dungeons for a while and--and read."

Neville put a bookmark in his Herbology text and closed it. "Professor Snape said you aren't supposed to study."

"I don't mean study. I mean read."

"In the dungeons?"

She shrugged. "It's quiet down there."

"It's quiet in the library, too."

"Neville--" she bit her lip, looking down at her hands as tears suddenly welled up in her eyes as she recalled what tomorrow surely had in store for her. "Neville, everyone knows I go to the library. They know where I sit when I study. They know what times of day I'm likely to be there. I don't want to be someplace where people can find me that easily."

"Oh. Yeah--yeah, I guess that makes sense." He sighed and stood up. "Well, can I walk you down there?"

"I can do magic again, I'll be safe on my own."

"I know you will. I just wanted to walk with you."

She sat up, hunching over her knees and looking down at the floor, blinking her tears and the last sleepy sensations from her nap away. "I guess that's fine, sure."

He stood up and walked over to the couch where she'd been lying, holding out his hand to help her up. "Where are you going, anyway? The Potions classroom doesn't strike me as the most relaxing place to sit and read a book."

She laughed. "I guess it wouldn't, would it? But there's a little room I've found that nobody else uses. I like to sit and read in there."

"Hogwarts is good for that sort of thing. Those rooms turn up right when you need them, most of the time."

"Most of the time," she agreed.

"C'mon." He took her arm, helping her through the portrait hole. When they got into the hallway, he didn't let her arm go, and she didn't try to move it.

"Thanks for being around for me, Neville. You're really... lovely." She smiled at him. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Keep on getting by, I expect." He shrugged, smiling back. "But it wouldn't be quite as fun, maybe."

"Definitely not quite as fun."

They wandered through various topics of small talk as they made their way down to the dungeons. Hermione didn't plan on inviting him in to the room. It was her room--a private space. But she didn't mind him walking her to the door. He'd been a steady, solid presence during the past few days and weeks--during the past few months and years, if she were to be honest with herself--and she decided she liked that. It was a pleasant contrast to Ron, anyway.

She slid her hand down his arm and caressed the fading bruise on his knuckles where he'd punched Draco.

"Hermione," he said, stopping. They'd just made it to the dungeons, which were cool and dark and quiet, just as Hermione had hoped. She felt as if she'd reached a refuge--something almost like home.

"I wanted to thank you," she said softly, "for coming to my defense the other night. You were very... gallant."

"You know how I feel about you," he said, a trifle awkwardly.

"I know."

"And? Has anything changed?" He drew closer, withdrawing his hand from hers and caressing her cheek with it. "Do you think maybe now that your magic is back, now that you've got your feet under you a little more, that maybe you could--maybe we could give something a try?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I'm willing to try."

"Oh, Hermione," he whispered. His face was a study in bliss, and he drew even closer, looking down into her eyes. "I--Hermione, may I kiss you?"

She barely finished nodding before his lips were on hers, and he was kissing her. This was not a Neville she was accustomed to. He was passionate, hungry. He held her to himself and kissed her as if he'd never have a chance to do so again.

She tried to respond. She did. She let her body conform itself to his, wrapped her arms around him, kissed him back. His mouth tasted good, and he was strong and warm. She gave him the benefit of a little moan, even, and he responded with a moan of his own, and a tightening of his arms around her, and he backed her up against the wall and pressed her there, kissing her for all that he was worth.

But it was wrong, it was all wrong, and she found herself frustrated that he tasted so very much like _Neville_. Nor did he only taste like Neville. He felt like Neville, and sounded like Neville, and, when she ventured to open her eyes, he looked (of course) like Neville.

And, as his tongue ventured into her mouth yet again, and he gave another little moan against her lips and another little press of his hips into hers, she had a flash of insight. His mouth was on her neck now, and even as she moved her hands lower on his back and pulled him closer, moving her own hips to meet his, she knew suddenly that she would never kiss him again.

And she knew why.

It wasn't that he was Neville. Neville was lovely, and she loved him very much indeed--as Neville. The problem was not that he was Neville. It was that there was no point in kissing Neville, or anyone, for that matter, when someone else was so much more a part of her.

"Oh God," she whispered, forgetting to keep the thought silent, "I think I'm in love with him."

Neville's hands suddenly went still, and he raised his head, leaving the skin of her neck feeling cold. "What?" he said, and she got the impression that he didn't believe he could have heard her right.

"I--Neville--"

"You--Hermione, you _did_ just say that. Oh, Merlin." He kept his arms around her, but Hermione thought it might only be because he was so shocked that he'd forgotten he was holding her.

"I--" but she stopped there. She what? What was there to say? What was there to do, except to run and hide from the thought?

"It's Snape," he said flatly. "You're bloody in love with Snape."

"Neville..."

"You aren't saying I'm wrong."

"It isn't--I--there's nothing--"

"Of course there's nothing," he said bitterly. "You've only just realized it this moment. I knew it. I _knew_ it. I told you so, Hermione, and you said it was nothing, and I _believed_ you." He finally let go of her, stepping back several paces.

"It was!" she sad. His face darkened, and she reached back to hold on to the wall, for emotional, if not for physical support. "There isn't anything, Neville. That isn't what I meant."

"Right."

"Neville, I'm sorry."

"Save it, Hermione."

0 0 0

Severus sat very still, staring into the fire.

Only to be expected, he told himself. She was young and beautiful, full of life and energy and love. He'd known all along that it was unthinkable for that love to be directed towards him--known all along that, eventually, it would be directed towards someone else.

"Only to be expected," he said aloud, and then he groaned, covering his eyes with one hand and massaging the bridge of his nose. He didn't have a headache, but he felt as if he ought to.

But closing his eyes led to visions he couldn't endure, so he opened them again. Not that it mattered. He saw the same thing when he opened his eyes--Hermione, moaning into Neville Longbottom's ear, arching her back off of the stone wall of the hallway when he kissed her, grinding her curving, green-clad hips into his.

He groaned again, getting up and beginning to pace the room. It was too hard to sit still, not when that image repeated itself again and again in front of him. In the dungeon, of all places! Had she done it specifically in the hope that he might open a door and catch sight of them, as he had indeed done? Was she trying to send him a message, by choosing his own domain for such a liaison? Had he been too obvious with what he had intended to only be admiration from afar?

He'd known all along that she was unattainable.

Only to be expected.

The time to be angry and possessive was past. He'd known, he'd known that he would have to resign himself to this--even to Neville Longbottom, if that was her choice. He had no option in the matter. He could do nothing but accept it like an adult and like a man, and move on.

He threw himself down into his chair again, burying his face in his hands. When he lowered them again, they came away wet with bitter tears that he hadn't realized he'd been shedding.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I'd say this is the fastest update I've done in a while, and I'm feeling rather pleased with it. As things stand now, there's no way the fic is going to be done in 60 chapters like I'd planned. It really did look like it would work that way in my outline, but things kept insisting that they be added, and then Snape and Hermione were still dragging their feet, and then the trial insisted that it needed most of a whole chapter for itself, instead of being just the end bit of chapter 57. 

So what can I say? You're going to have to bear with me for longer than just two more chapters.


	59. Oftener Than Not

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 59: Oftener Than Not**

* * *

Hermione, her heart racing, let herself into her small dungeon study room and closed the door behind herself, locking it carefully. That done, she leaned against the door frame, her hands and knees shaking. Her stomach was unsettled from the adrenaline that flooded her body. In love with Professor Snape? Where had that come from? How long had it been true?

She closed her eyes, lifting her hands to her cheeks. Her fingers were freezing, but her face felt hot and uncomfortable, and her stomach was churning more and more.

As soon as she could walk without her knees buckling, she crossed the room and sat down in front of the mirror. After a few more seconds of hesitation, she tucked her hair behind her ears and, with a deep breath, she looked into it.

At first, she saw nothing but her own reflection. Then, dimly, she began to see other things--eyes. Perhaps a dozen pairs of eyes blinked at her from the mirror, all of them at least vaguely familiar. She squinted, trying to see more clearly. Yes, some of them _definitely_ looked familiar. Those emerald-green ones were surely Harry's.

And, as she thought of Harry, the other pairs of eyes seemed to melt away, and around the green eyes, a face materialized, and then a body, and Harry was grinning at her from the mirror.

"No, no," she muttered. She didn't need to see Harry. She needed to see Professor Snape.

As she thought more clearly of Professor Snape, Harry faded from sight, and a new face appeared. _His_ face appeared, looking out at her from the mirror.

As before, he seemed, at least in the reflection, to be standing just behind her; when she turned around, however, he wasn't there. He didn't move. He merely looked at her. In fact, he didn't look anywhere _but_ at her, and for the first time, she realized that the real Professor Snape had never really looked at her before--not the way that the mirror-Snape was looking at her now.

Oh, he'd looked at her, of course. All of her professors had looked at her at one time or another. It would be far more remarkable if they hadn't. But he'd never looked at her like this. This was intense--so intense that it almost frightened her with the force of it, as if he were trying to see every last thought in her heart. And, now that she saw it and thought about it, she realized that he'd never looked into her eyes for more than a few accidental seconds before.

Not that he was doing it now, either. Not _really_.

She wondered why he avoided it. Was it possible that the real Professor Snape felt as the mirror-Snape seemed to? It was an odd, almost an amusing comparison, but he looked to her as he had when speaking of Potions, or of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He looked like a man with a great love for the subject of his thoughts.

And the subject of the mirror-Snape's thoughts was certainly Hermione. There was no way for her to doubt that.

Was it possible? Had he, perhaps, avoided her so assiduously because he was afraid that she might see something he wished to hide? That was certainly very likely to be the truth, of course. The real question was what he was hiding. It had never occurred to her before now that it might be something like love.

She shook her head and turned away from the mirror. She knew about magic mirrors, and most of what she knew wasn't encouraging. Harry and Ron had told her all about the Mirror of Erised, and she'd gone to the library and read still more. She couldn't trust this mirror to show the truth--not when she knew so little about it. The House-Elves might have an idea of what it showed, but even they might have been misled.

Could it be possible that he loved her?

When she looked again, he was still watching her, with the same intense, passionate expression on his face. Then, as if to answer her questions, he smiled and turned his head, whispering something in mirror-Hermione's ear. But the real Hermione couldn't hear what it was, although she could imagine the sensation of his breath on her ear when he said whatever he was saying to her.

She frowned and shook her head, wishing she could shake those thoughts out of her mind as easily as she could shake her hair away from her face. That mirror was dangerous, and she knew already that she could while away far too many hours looking at it and imagining things that she was sure could never happen. Enchantment or no enchantment, she was still Hermione Jean Granger, bushy-haired know-it-all and general annoyance. He'd got over some of that, of course, or he'd never have let her become his apprentice in the first place, but that didn't mean that he could see her as anything other than a schoolgirl.

The mirror was seductive, and it was unwise to think of it as anything but treacherous. She backed away from it until she couldn't see him anymore. If she watched the false Snape for too long, she didn't think she'd be able to go near the real one without thinking of it, without wishing and dreaming. She was no spy. He'd find her out, and what would she do then? She couldn't run and hide from him. The enchantment saw to that. She would have to keep facing him every day, knowing that he knew what had suddenly, and against all of her expectations, become her deepest and most intimate secret.

She suddenly wanted to leave the room, peaceful and quiet though it was. Neville was outside, somewhere, probably telling everyone the very secret that she herself had just discovered, and she didn't want to be out there at all while it was happening. But her eyes kept straying to the mirror, no matter how hard she tried not to look. She couldn't help it. The way that he looked at her...

She _had_to leave the room. Steeling herself, she opened the door and walked back into the corridor.

When she finally returned to the Common Room, there were no mutters, no dirty looks to suggest that Neville had said anything to the other members of Gryffindor House. In fact, the opposite was true. Harry and Ron elbowed their way through a crowd that seemed to contain every Gryffindor in the school, along with several Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and both hugged her tightly.

"Hermione!" shouted Harry above the din. "Where've you been?"

"Downstairs," said Hermione vaguely, looking around with some confusion. "What's going on?"

"Combination wedding reception and welcome back party," said Ron. He grinned and elbowed Harry in the ribs.

"Welcome back party?"

"The Ministry declared Dudley innocent of any involvement with Aunt Petunia and the Death Eaters," said Harry, "and Professor McGonagall let him come back here to stay for as long as he likes."

"Oh, Harry, that's wonderful! Where is he?" She scanned the crowd, looking for the hulking form of Harry's only worthwhile relative. "And what about your aunt?"

Harry shrugged indifferently, looking away.

Ron produced a pumpkin pasty from somewhere and bit into it with relish, not bothering to swallow before he started to talk. "Apparently, it's not such a great idea to make a full confession of your crimes in front of the Minister for Magic and a crowd of Aurors. They didn't even bother calling witnesses."

Hermione reached out to touch Harry's arm. "What happened?"

"Life in Azkaban," said Harry, shrugging again and attempting a smile that turned out rather sickly.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry."

"Well, you needn't be. Dudley and I will get by, and... well, it isn't as if we loved each other much."

"Right," she said, not really believing him.

"I'll be fine," he said. "Really. I've got my own family now." He glanced over at Ginny, who stood laughing in a circle of their friends.

The sight left Hermione feeling oddly isolated and sad. She was outside of that circle, and would be outside of it always. Not for her, the laughter and congratulations. Not for her, the happy ending. She was in love with a man she would never be able to win. She sighed. Time to begin reconciling herself to the idea of being the odd one out. Again.

"I'm really happy for you, Harry," she said brightly. "Although, I do think you might have waited until after you were both done with your NEWTs."

He grinned. "Probably, but where's the fun in that? Besides, as long as we're both still living in the castle, we can't get up to much. It's practically as if we aren't married yet at all, still."

"True." She looked around again. "Harry, is Dudley even _here_?"

"Er, no. Not at the moment. He got called away."

Ron wiped the last crumbs of the now-demolished pumpkin pasty from his lips. "Yeah. McGonagall wanted to talk to him."

They chatted about incidentals for a few more minutes and then split apart, Ron breaking off to make the rounds, proclaiming his blessing of the union, and Harry to continue accepting congratulations. Hermione, for her part, retreated to a window seat with a book and a bottle of butterbeer. The press of bodies in the room had heated it up almost unbearably, and she felt hot and uncomfortable.

She opened the window just a crack, leaning her head on the pane to better take advantage of the cool breeze it let in, and opened her book. It wasn't studying per se, she reasoned, as she wasn't making any effort to remember any of it. She was just _interested_. He hadn't told her that she couldn't be interested in things.

She read, relatively undisturbed, for about half an hour, at which point Dudley interrupted her. He settled his massive bulk on the edge of the window seat, just beside her feet, and looked over at her.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the window and swigging from his own bottle of butterbeer with apparent relish. "Not joining in the party?"

She looked up. "I'm right here, aren't I?"

He grinned. "That's how you have fun at parties? Reading books?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "Yeah. You know me. Nothing but excitement, all the time."

Dudley nodded and re-corked his bottle. "Don't blame you, really. A bit of a party's fun, but I like it a little quieter."

"Mm." She waited through a short, awkward silence before saying, "I heard Professor McGonagall wanted to talk to you. Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah! More than all right, actually. She wanted to offer me a job."

"A job? At Hogwarts?"

"Yeah. She said Hagrid needs an assistant, and I'm big enough and strong enough to take on the job, even though I don't measure up to him by half."

"Wow, Dudley! Are you going to do it?"

He grinned shyly and nodded.

"I didn't know that you liked animals."

He patted his trouser pocket awkwardly. "Oh, yeah. I love 'em. Only, mum would never let me closer to one than what you could see behind glass or bars at the zoo, and even then I had to make a fuss to get there."

"Why, do you think?"

He shrugged. "You met my mum."

Something appeared to be wrong with his pocket, and he began to shift around uncomfortably, cupping his hand over it. Hermione leaned forward, trying to see better. "What on earth is in your pocket?" she said, frowning.

"Oh." He grinned, looking embarrassed. "It's a cat--kneazle, I mean. Or half-kneazle, maybe. A wild one just had a litter of kittens, and Hagrid gave me this one." He fished it out of his pocket. It was tiny, especially in his massive hand, and it clung to him with its miniscule claws, mewing.

"Oh, isn't she a _darling_?" cooed Hermione, reaching her hands out for it. Dudley passed it over to her, and she cupped it in her hands, stroking its head with her fingertip.

"Always wanted a cat," said Dudley, making an obvious effort to look less delighted with it than he really was. "Mum wouldn't let one within fifty meters of the house, if it was up to her. She hated cats. Piers Polkiss' mum had one, though, and it loved me. If mum ever found out about that, she'd've been furious."

"Of course." She brought the kitten up to her face, rubbing its warm fur against her cheek. It made her miss Crookshanks painfully, and she wondered fleetingly if she ought to go down and ask Hagrid to let her pick a kitten out for herself, as well. "Squibs and cats. They've got an affinity, and it's natural your mum would want to keep as far away from them as possible, given how she felt about magic. But they say that squibs can even talk to their cats."

"Wow, really?" He held his hand out for the kitten again, and Hermione handed it back to him reluctantly. "That makes sense. I always did say that Piers' mum's cat was just about the smartest animal I ever met."

She looked at him curiously, watching the kitten begin to lick his thumb. "Did you talk to it?"

"Nah. Wouldn't have thought of it. I'll talk to this one,though. I bet she'll be a right little chatterbox."

"Did you name her yet?"

"Er, yeah. Yeah, I did." His cheeks went ever-so-slightly pink. "I named her Claudia."

"Claudia?"

"After this girl from school that I sort of--y'know. I liked her, I guess. It's been a while, though. Being in hiding and on the run and stuff makes it a bit hard to keep up with Muggle girls."

"Of course it does. So, does Harry know about the job?"

"Not yet. Don't want to steal the spotlight from him. I mean--married. Wow. You know?"

Hermione nodded, and they both fell silent again, both watching Harry and Ginny. The newlyweds were standing together now, Harry apparently telling the story of their already-infamous elopement, while the entire crowd of their friends listened enthusiastically.

"Ginny's great, though," said Dudley after a while, transferring Claudia to his shoulder, where she dug her claws in and laid down. "I like her."

"Harry's going to be really happy. The Weasleys are a wonderful family, and Harry's always wanted a family of his own." She looked at him and blushed. "Not to say that you aren't--I mean--"

"No, you're right. He's never had that," said Dudley simply. "Not until this year, anyway, and it didn't last long."

The portrait hole opened and Neville walked in. He looked as surprised to see the party as Hermione had been, and he made a beeline for Harry and Ginny as soon as he understood what was going on. Even as he was congratulating them, though, his eyes were moving, scanning each face in turn. When he saw Hermione, their eyes met briefly, and then, abruptly, he turned his back on her.

The guilt that she'd managed to avoid thus far suddenly arrived with a vengeance and a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She stood up abruptly, giving Dudley an apologetic smile. "Sorry, but I've just realized the time," she said, her heart racing as she spouted the first excuse that came to her. "I've got to start getting ready for bed. It was an awfully long day, you know, and Professor Snape will want to see me quite early tomorrow morning."

"Oh, right," said Dudley, pausing in his efforts to get Claudia to remove her claws from his shoulder. "Hey--are you all right, Hermione?"

She froze. "I'm fine," she said, with no pretense of sincerity. "Really brilliant, actually. Just tired. I'm so happy you've got a job. That's really lovely."

"Thanks. Get some sleep, okay? You look terrible."

"I will." She smiled weakly, tempted to look at Neville again, but fearing that she might vomit if she did.

"Don't forget to say something nice to Harry before you go, too, if you don't mind. He's really happy, but I think he's afraid you all secretly disapprove."

"Why would we disapprove? I mean--I know why people in general would, but he's Harry. Besides, we all knew it was coming eventually."

Dudley finally succeeded in getting Claudia off his shoulder, and he transferred her back into his pocket, leaving only her tail sticking out. "He's pretty broken up about my mum. I guess he thought they were finally starting to patch things up, and then she had to go mad and spoil things."

"I thought he might be. Thanks for letting me know, Dudley." She smiled brightly at him, gave him a friendly squeeze on the arm, and made her way towards Harry and Ginny.

0 0 0

Severus, contrary to all of Poppy's expectations, had actually requested tea, without even a word of prompting on her part.

"Longbottom," he said, doing what he could to keep any hint of self-pity from his voice. "She's taken up with _Longbottom_."

"Taken up with?" asked Poppy mildly, stirring her tea. "Have another biscuit, Severus."

He took another biscuit, without argument. "I caught them... in flagrante delicto. In the dungeon, of all places."

"In flagrante--Severus, surely that's an exaggeration."

He scowled, biting viciously into the biscuit and indulging in the pleasing fantasy that it was actually Longbottom's heart he was eating. "Things had not progressed very far," he admitted.

"Mm."

"That is beside the point. I am highly disappointed, both in her choice of... companion... and her choice of location for such a display."

"Oh, I don't know, Severus," sad Poppy calmly. "The dungeons seem like a perfect spot to me, especially at a time of day when no other students are likely to be present. Quite discreet, really."

"I am not amused."

"I think you forfeit any right to complain about this when you insist that there is no possibility of any level of relationship deeper than master and apprentice developing between you. By all means, leave things as they are, but do not also act as if you have any right to criticize her choice of lover, if Longbottom actually _is_ her lover--which," she added meditatively, "I find unlikely. Your behavior at the moment is childish, Severus. It smacks of the dog in the manger."

"Dog in the...?" He frowned.

"Dog in the manger, Severus. A dog sits in a manger full of straw. He won't eat the straw himself, but he barks at any of the other animals that try. It's childish."

"I have every right to be interested in my apprentice's choice of--"

"Yes, Severus, if you have given her any sort of explicit directions or orders about her abstention or lack thereof. Have you?"

He growled into his tea.

"I thought not. If you feel so strongly about it, court her yourself. This self-torture is useless."

"I cannot, Poppy."

"Nonsense."

He set his tea down, working his tongue over his teeth as he attempted to rein in his emotions and decide what to say. "It is not so simple. She is a student. An apprentice. And, for Merlin's sake, the enchantment, Poppy--it would be taking advantage. Nor is that the only objection that can be raised. I am far older than her. My... history... my past, is hardly conducive to carrying on a healthy relationship with a girl so young."

"And I will repeat what I have said before, Severus. All of that is nonsense."

"I cannot believe that you are advocating I pursue a relationship with a student."

"Of course you can't, because I would not do so. However, she is going to be a student for only two more weeks, Severus, and at that point you are free to do as you please. As to the enchantment, you give her no credit at all if you assume that her emotions are any less genuine than your own, when you are both in such completely identical situations."

He swallowed, the sweetness of the tea suddenly turning bitter on his tongue. "Even if I did make such an ill-conceived attempt to embarrass myself, it doesn't matter. It is... too late."

"Because she kissed Neville Longbottom?"

"Because she has chosen to devote her... personal time... to somebody else, yes." His lip twisted bitterly. "To say nothing of the fact that, in taking up with Weasley first and then with Longbottom, she has demonstrated that her taste in men hardly runs towards ex-Death Eaters and Potions Masters."

"Has it occurred to you, Severus, that perhaps she has simply never had a chance to consider another option and is settling for the best that she feels to be available?"

The thought had, in fact, _not_occurred to him, but he did his best to keep from conveying this to her. "Poppy, don't be nonsensical."

"I thought it hadn't," she said, looking pleased with herself. "You ought to think about it, you know. You might find that she's simply waiting for someone to offer her something new and different, my dear."

"And you think she would accept me merely on the basis of my being 'new' and 'different,' I suppose?" He sneered at her, willing away the faint spark of hope that insisted on making itself heard in the depths of his mind.

"Hardly," she said mildly. "You might turn out to be her type, that's all. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"How very Gryffindor of you."

She snorted derisively from behind her teacup. "I am not a Gryffindor, Severus, and neither are you, as I have had opportunity to tell you before.

"I call things as I see them."

"She will never choose you if she doesn't know that the choice is open to her."

"She would never choose me even if it were."

"Have you any evidence whatsoever on which to base that conclusion?"

He hesitated, touching his fingertips to the scars on his neck. "I... gave her a gift. It changed nothing."

Poppy's eyebrows went up. "You gave her a gift? Do tell, Severus."

He made a face, looking into his tea--aware, even before he spoke, of what her response would be. "Apprentice's robes."

"I see." A telltale tightening in her mouth betrayed her desire to smile. "You gave her apprentice's robes--as you are required to do, because she is your apprentice. I am shocked that she didn't declare her love for you on the spot."

"They were quite expensive."

"Ah. That makes all the difference, then."

Had he not been so miserable, he might have laughed at himself. "I have never bought such robes for any other student."

"And she, of course, is in a position to know that."

Severus made a restless gesture, looking away from her. "It's immaterial, Poppy. A hundred such gifts would do no more for me in her eyes than the first one did--nor should they."

"Severus, it's late. Go back to your rooms. Get some sleep. I don't mind being dragged out of my bed occasionally in the name of love, but in return I expect that you might at least attempt to listen to reason. As you aren't inclined to do so, let me go back to bed."

He set his teacup down and bowed his head. "If you wish, Poppy. I have no desire to inflict myself upon you if I am unwelcome."

"Severus," she said reproachfully.

He was already at the door, and he glanced at her over his shoulder. "Good night, Poppy."

"Think about what I've said, my dear. Try and get some sleep. Things will look brighter in the morning."

He frowned. "I might have believed such platitudes when I was twelve."

"Believe them now. There's wisdom in them."

He looked away. "Good night, Poppy."

He heard her muffled 'good night' through the door as it clicked closed, but only just barely.

0 0 0

Hermione prevaricated for several minutes, hovering around the edges of the circle that surrounded Harry and Ginny. Neville and Ron both were at their sides, and she couldn't bring herself to get any closer. Had Neville already told them? At any second, they'd all turn and look at her, disgusted...

But they didn't.

Only Neville noticed that she'd come near. He looked at her for a long moment before glancing at Harry and Ginny and then back to her again. Then he shook his head, conveying silently (she could only hope that she understood him correctly) that he wouldn't tell--or at least, that he hadn't yet.

She swallowed against her renewed nausea, putting her hand on her stomach and wondering if she'd ever feel like eating again.

"Harry," she said, pushing through the crowd to his side, "and Ginny--I've got to get to bed, but I'm _so_ happy for both of you. I just wanted to tell you again. Make sure you tell Mrs. Weasley soon though, won't you? She's going to have a fit, you know."

Ginny's grin was even bigger than Harry's. "Yeah, we know. We're looking forward to it."

Hermione, feeling as if she might be in a dream, actually managed to laugh with them as she walked towards the stairs, although it was a miracle to her that it fooled anyone at all.

0 0 0

He didn't even think about following Poppy's last instructions and going to bed. He went outside instead. It was too stuffy inside the castle, and even the cool dungeon corridors felt hot and close, as if they were filled with invisible people who jostled him at every turn. The more he paced them, the less comfortable he felt, until he was nauseated as well as restless and overheated.

It was cool and pleasant outside, just cold enough to make him appreciate the magically-enhanced warmth of his robes. The bite in the air was refreshing after the stuffiness of the castle.

But his restlessness didn't diminish, and he found himself walking along the edge of the lake, listening to the splashing of the giant squid far out in the water, and to the faint, faint murmur of the merfolk singing in the depths. Poppy's advice was foolish. It was ridiculous. It was inappropriate and unprofessional... but it was infinitely attractive.

He stopped, kicking a clod of dirt into the water and looking over his shoulder at the brightly-lit windows of Gryffindor tower. She was in there now, most likely--in there with Longbottom, laughing and being happy. He swallowed. Never before, even in the most ardent days of his unrequited love for Lily, had he felt so isolated and shut out. He was doomed to be left on the outside of her life forever.

Ironic, he thought, that he should be so shut out from her heart, when he was the one in the position to know her the best of all. Certainly he could know her far better, far more intimately than any of the worthless fools who surrounded her up in that tower.

He closed his eyes, blocking the tower from his sight. She was surely awake, probably engaging in more of the same wanton display that he'd witnessed in the dungeons. He should have accosted them and taken hundreds of points from both of them. He should have said something. He should have done something--anything, rather than simply retreating to his own rooms and weeping like a lovesick little boy.

Except that he _was_ lovesick. That knowledge made him want to weep again.

He threw himself moodily onto the wet grass, stretching out face down and smelling the scent of spring that rose from the soil. Instead of calming him, it made him more restless than ever. Poppy's advice had been foolish. Ridiculous. Inappropriate. It was mad, to suggest that Hermione would see anything in him beyond (if he indulged his wildest dreams) perhaps a friend, some day.

It was insane to even imagine the idea of Severus Snape courting Hermione Granger, however subtly. He could not countenance even the fantasy of it.

0 0 0

Only once she was locked in her bedroom did Hermione notice that she wasn't tired in the least. On the contrary, she felt anxious and restless. The day had gone on for so long. She _ought_ to be tired. Instead, she was only miserable.

She paced back and forth, the events of the day slowly beginning to percolate through her mind. The trial was over. She'd made it through alive. Tomorrow--but no, not tomorrow; later on in the day that had already begun, the full account of it would be in the _Prophet_. She shuddered.

She stopped by the window and looked out at the lake. For a moment, she thought she saw someone moving along the shoreline, but the moon was only a thin crescent, and it was too dark to see anything but the rippling of the water in the dim moonlight.

Neville knew that she was in love with Professor Snape. She, Hermione Granger, was in love with Professor Snape.

"Oh, no," she moaned, throwing herself face down on her bed and burying her head in her arms. She was in love with Professor Snape, of all people, and Neville knew it, and Professor Snape could all but read her mind. How long before he found out? And oh, how he would laugh at her.

She'd be lucky if he only laughed. Mockery was bad enough, but cruelty... she curled up into a fetal position, hugging her knees to her chest and keeping her eyes tightly closed. What would he do? What would he say, if he found out? He would never welcome it, and he wasn't a man to tolerate unwelcome things with good grace. She groaned. What had she got herself into?

For the first time in weeks, she thought of the dream that she'd had, that dream of kissing him. Her cheeks grew hot at the memory. Had she loved him for so long, and simply not realized it? Had it _been_ love? She was, at least, reasonably sure that he hadn't seen it, in spite of her fears at the time that he had. Surely if he had, he'd have given some indication, said something. As he hadn't, she felt more or less safe.

But there would be other dreams, and eventually, he would see one of them. What would she do then?

It took her a very long time indeed to fall asleep.

0 0 0

He didn't feel the passing of time as he lay on the ground. The nearly nonexistent moon traveled across the sky and set. Eventually, the Eastern horizon began to glow faintly pink, and the new spring grass in which he lay began to appear as individual blades.

He stood up. He was wet with dew, and there was mud on his robes and his hands. It occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that he might like a shave and a shower before he had to face Hermione again.

As he walked back to the castle in the slowly growing light, he gritted his teeth, preparing himself to live with the choice that he'd made while lying there in the darkness.

0 0 0

Hermione arrived in the Potions lab before Professor Snape did. She'd been awakened early by a dream that she forgot as soon as she realized that it hadn't been real, and had been unable to get to sleep again. In spite of having slept fitfully all night, she felt rested and alert,and there hadn't seemed to be any point in lying abed so close to the morning.

So, as the first dawn light had begun to steal across the Eastern sky, she'd risen from her bed and started to prepare for what she fully expected to be the worst day of her life.

After a moment of uncertainty in the hallway, she let herself into the laboratory, reasoning that he wouldn't have keyed the wards to her if he hadn't wished her to be able to enter at will. Once there, she looked around uncertainly. It was just as clean as it had been the previous morning, without so much as a stirring rod out of place.

She'd been waiting for ten minutes when he arrived; it was enough time for her to lose her resolve and become thoroughly nervous about seeing him, and then to regain it again. He, thankfully, barely seemed to notice her at all, except to nod curtly as he entered and walked straight for the supply closet.

Unsure of what to do, and having been given no instructions, she stayed where she was. He was gone for only a moment, and when he returned, he held a large jar full of flobberworms.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he said, looking at her for the first time that morning as he placed the jar on the work table.

"Good morning, sir." She hoped desperately that she wasn't blushing. She could smell him. How had she never noticed before that he wore scent? It was subtle, and she liked it immensely, although she couldn't immediately identify what it was. She sniffed the air several times before she realized what she was doing and switched to holding her breath.

"You see here a jar full of a mundane but useful Potions ingredient, Miss Granger. Flobberworms are used in a variety of potions, and are generally thought of as easy to prepare. You know, I assume, the method?"

He paused and looked at her again, and she realized that it was an invitation to speak. "Slice the flobberworm lengthwise first, then lay each half, flat side down, on the table and cut into thin slices of equal size." Her voice sounded ridiculous and overeager in her ears. Who in their right mind could sound so eager to discuss dissecting flobberworms? She winced inwardly. So much for subtlety.

"Indeed," he said dryly. He produced a silver knife from somewhere and placed it beside the jar. "This jar contains one hundred flobberworms. You will dissect them--_all_ of them. When you are finished, I will inspect them for consistency. I expect not to see a single slice thicker or thinner than one millimeter. If I do, you will start again, with a second jar full. We will continue this exercise until I feel that you perform the procedure perfectly, every time, without exception. Then we will move on to another ingredient, and so forth."

She blinked, her intellectual and emotional ardor somewhat dampened by the pronouncement. "Sir? Have I--" she clenched her fists nervously behind her back, praying that he hadn't picked up on her newly-discovered infatuation already "--have I done something wrong?"

"Miss Granger, any fool can brew a potion. Even--" his lip curled disdainfully "--_Longbottom_ can perform the fundamentals of brewing. It is precision and accuracy which separate the great from the good. Ninety-nine percent of my students will never reach the level of study you have now attained, and therefore I have no reason to waste my time and energy in training them to that level of precision. You, on the other hand, will return to the beginning, to the most rudimentary, first-year skill sets, and re-learn all of them, to my specifications." He removed a pocket watch from inside of his robes and glanced at it. "And you will begin... now."

And so she began, slicing each flobberworm with as much care as she could divert from her thoughts of Professor Snape and her fears for the upcoming day.

0 0 0

Severus turned his back on her as she took up the knife and began to slice flobberworms with an attitude that, if it was not enthusiastic, was at least not sullen. He pretended to check on his one brewing potion, but it was nearly ready, and there was nothing left to be done with it except to pause for a moment and appreciate the loveliness of the soft, shimmering vapor that hovered above the bubbling surface of the liquid.

The rhythmic sound of the knife on the table was soothing and pleasant. She had grace, and she had talent, and he would work her to the bone, if he had to. She might never be his lover or his wife, but, by God, she would be the best Potions Mistress in Britain, if Severus Snape had anything to say about it.

It had pained him less than he'd feared it would to see her that morning. Poppy was a madwoman, and he was equally mad for even thinking about listening to her, but it felt good to have at least a shred of hope. There was a lifetime in which to woo her, if one could call it wooing for a man to dedicate himself to educating and bettering a woman who he doubted would ever be his, solely because he imagined it would make her happy. She thrived on learning and knowledge. Had he ever seriously imagined withholding the apprenticeship from her?

It took her perhaps twenty minutes to slice all the flobberworms, and he immediately went to her work table to inspect them. They were nearly perfect--nearly. She'd got sloppy towards the end, probably due to fatigue, and sliced a few of them unevenly. He set these aside.

"Miss Granger," he said, as sternly as he could, "are you incapable of following simple instructions?"

When she raised her eyes to his face, he noticed how tired she looked. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her shoulders sagged just slightly--so slightly that he doubted he would have noticed, were she wearing her bulky school robes.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she said, a note of despondency in her voice. "Did I do it wrong?"

For the first time in his life, he wanted to wince at being called 'Professor' by a student. "These here," he said, reminding himself that there was no other name by which she could appropriately call him, "were very poorly done." He pushed the ill-cut flobberworms toward her with the blade of the silver knife. "Look at them, and tell me what is wrong."

She picked one up with a look of distaste, and looked at it closely. "It's ragged," she finally said, "and too thick."

"Correct. What is the reason?"

"My hands got tired, and--and I got distracted."

He blinked, taken off-guard. "Distracted? You find this lesson unworthy of your full attention, Miss Granger?" he said, more coldly even than he felt.

"I--I'm sorry, sir," she murmured, biting her lip and looking thoroughly wretched. "It's--I was thinking about breakfast."

"I see," said Severus, feeling that he didn't see at all. He frowned irritably. "If you are too hungry to continue with your lessons, Miss Granger, by all means..."

"No," she said quickly, "I'm not hungry at all."

"Five points from Gryffindor for lying." As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It had, apparently, been too long since he'd attempted in any serious way to ingratiate himself with a woman.

"I didn't lie! I'm not hungry. I--the _Daily Prophet_ arrives at breakfast," she whispered miserably, and when he looked at her, he saw that her eyelashes were wet with unshed tears.

"Miss Granger," he said, suddenly helpless in the face of those tears. She looked at him expectantly, but he didn't know what else to say. What was there to say? She was right. The papers would arrive. She would be exposed, as he had been so infuriated to realize the day before.

"You--" he continued at last, and then paused again, uncertain "--while this laboratory is, in general, strictly reserved for the study and pursuit of Potions-making, I... am willing to make an exception for the next few days, should you need a... private place to retire."

She looked around the room. "I don't want to intrude," she said softly, her voice unsteady.

He longed, not for the first time, to hold her close to himself and comfort her in his arms. "I did what I could to intercede with the Minister on your behalf, Miss Granger. I am... sorry that you are to be subjected to this kind of public scrutiny. It is the least I can do to offer you a sanctuary. I will order breakfast for you, and you have my permission to take your meals in the study until such time as you are comfortable dining in the Great Hall again."

She met his eyes and gave him a small, watery smile. "Thank you, sir."

He drew his wand and pointed it at the congealing mass of sliced flobberworms. "_Evanesco_," he said, in as neutral a voice as he could manage with his heart in utter turmoil. "Fetch another jar of flobberworms from the storeroom, Miss Granger, and begin again."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Just think how sad you'd all be if this were still the penultimate chapter!

Thanks to RenitaLeandra, without whom you would all be reading a pile of unmitigated crap, because I would have nobody telling me when my ideas are crap and won't work.

This chapter is especially dedicated to my friend madamsnape78, with love.


	60. Mirror, Mirror

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

* * *

**Chapter 60: Mirror, Mirror**

* * *

Hermione crept through the corridors and down the stairs as silently as she could. It was long past curfew, and even though there was less than a week left until NEWTs and the end of school, she had long been in the habit of trying not to lose more points than she could help. 

But she couldn't sleep, and Lavender snored. When she couldn't stand it any longer, she'd slipped out of bed, telling herself that she was just going to go for a bit of a walk to relax.

She ended up, however, slipping into the small study in the dungeons and gazing into the mirror once again, practically begging it to show her Professor Snape's face.

Almost immediately, but still not soon enough for Hermione, he was there. She held her breath, gazing at his face, which had so quickly become the only one she wished to see. His eyes met hers, and he smiled tenderly, gazing at her with a look of complete concentration and love. She sighed.

"I love you," she whispered to the mirror, wishing that he was real.

His eyes softened, the look of passion and desire muting until it was merely one of tenderness, and his smile lingered, changing his face in a way that she like very much.

Before she even realized what she was doing, her hand was on the cold glass, her fingertips softly stroking the the reflection of his face, and trying to make herself imagine that it felt like something other than the surface of a mirror.

She stayed that way a long time, before she finally forced herself to leave and make her way sleepily back to the Gryffindor tower.

0 0 0

Severus, deeply asleep in his bedroom, turned restlessly and then, very suddenly woke up.

His bed was large, and warm,and very comfortable... and very empty. Just awake enough to feel foolish for doing it, he closed his arms around a pillow and buried his face in it.

"I love you, Hermione," he mumbled, muffled through the feathers, and fell asleep again.

0 0 0

The front page of the Daily Prophet was duplicated a dozen times throughout the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom alone, and all that Hermione could hear was the rustling of newsprint.

Her own face, all too predictably, looked out at her from the paper, shining and wet with tears. She frowned, wondering if her mouth really contorted like that when she cried.

"SPECIAL EDITION: HOGWARTS HEROINE TESTIFIES!" screamed the headline. "ALLEGED RAPE ON DUMBLEDORE'S WATCH!"

Beneath it, the article (what she had read of it thus far, at least, when morbid curiosity overcame her) spread across the entire front page. It wasn't by Rita Skeeter; her days of scandal mongering were long over, at least where Hermione's personal life was concerned. Whoever had written it certainly came from the same mold, however.

"Hogwarts prefect Hermione Granger testified before the Wizengamot yesterday, during the trial of suspected Death Eater Draco Malfoy. Although there were other witnesses at the trial, it is Granger's testimony that is likely to cause the greatest scandal.

"During the trial, she alleged that Malfoy accosted her within the very halls of Hogwarts, and committed a violent sexual assault.

"Granger, a Muggle-born whose name has previously been linked with other notorious wizards such as Harry Potter, Viktor Krum, and, more recently, war hero Ron Weasley, claimed that this alleged assault went undetected and unpunished until his very year, when she herself revealed it to Hogwarts faculty. Conveniently, the revelation occurred just when Malfoy's father was undergoing trial and sentencing for alleged Death Eater activities. Young Malfoy's subsequent expulsion served as the final disgrace in the recent history of one of our most prestigious pureblood families.

"If Granger's testimony is to be believed, it raises dramatic and important questions about Hogwarts itself. How is it possible for a student to be so brutally attacked without a single authority figure discovering it? How many other such attacks have taken place within the school, unpunished and unreported?

"One must question not only the dedication of then-Headmaster Dumbledore to student safety, but also that of his staff. This writer thinks in particular of those faculty members who have since risen to prominence since Dumbledore's death.

"Witches and Wizards of Britain, IS HOGWARTS SAFE FOR YOUR DAUGHTERS?"

The page ended there, with footnotes directing interested readers towards a dozen more articles in a similar vein, and a full transcript of the trial on the back page.

"What are you reading that trash for?" asked Ron, sliding into the seat beside her.

Harry and Ginny leaned over her shoulder. "Eugh," said Ginny, with considerable feeling. "He's right. Ignore it."

Hermione, too tired to argue, crumpled the paper up and Vanished it. "I just had to look," she said, rather apologetically. "It's better to know what they're saying... isn't it? Harry?"

He shrugged. "I always thought so. That was different, though. This is way more personal."

She looked over at the door, wondering how much longer it would be until Professor Snape came in and began the lesson. She had a feeling that he would dispense quickly with the issue of her testimony, and she welcomed the idea gratefully. But there was only a minute left before class started... forty-five seconds... and then thirty seconds, and he still wasn't there. He was always early.

The anticipation of seeing him, of being in the same room with him, was enough to make her heart race and her hands feel light and shaky. She bit her lip, trying to focus on what Harry and Ron were saying, but only able to think of him.

0 0 0

"It is insupportable," Severus said bitterly, throwing the paper down on Minerva's desk when he'd finished reading it. "What do they mean by publishing something like that about a mere girl and exposing her to the scrutiny of the entire world?"

"You see why I wished to call your attention to it," said Minerva sourly, looking at the assembled teachers.

Pomona Sprout was still reading, her face growing angrier by the moment. Flitwick appeared to have been rendered speechless with rage, and Septima Vector was reading it for the third time, shaking her head, with a very somber expression. Slughorn had read it quickly and was now frowning into the fire, his usually genial face looking lined and careworn. Severus felt a moment of intense pride at the thought that his beloved (even if she didn't know that she _was_ his beloved) was such an obvious favorite amongst professors in every House and discipline. Even Sibyl, her current Head of House, had the decency to look distressed instead of drunk.

"Hasn't she been through enough already?" said Pomona bitterly when she reached the end of the article. "Something ought to be done."

Aurora Sinistra raised her eyebrows, fingering a lock of her hair. "What do you suggest, Pomona? I believe that our students have long since demonstrated that banning a document is the _best_ way to get it read."

"I don't care. I won't have that filth in my classes."

"Admirable sentiment, Poppy," said Slughorn.

"But impractical." Minerva sat a little straighter--a miracle of anatomy and physics, given how severely upright she'd already been--and frowned at them. "Aurora is correct. Banning the article will do us no good. It must be dealt with on an individual basis--I am afraid you will _all_ need to deal with it, even those of you who no longer have Hermione as a pupil." Her eyes moved briefly to Sibyl. "I do not wish to see her harrassed, in _or_ out of the classroom. You all have different teaching methods. Apply them in this case, but I expect all of you to make it clear that it is _not_ to be discussed in her presence, and she is _not_ to be bothered. If they must discuss it--do your best to remind them that it must be seen in the light of a great wrong done to one of their own."

Severus cleared his throat. "As she is my apprentice, I have offered her full access at all hours to my private library and laboratory, in order to give her a place to go where there are no other students, should she... need to retreat."

Septima looked at him curiously. "Really, Severus? Was that necessary? Surely her Common Room or her dormitory would provide ample space for that. Sibyl, you're her Head of House; don't you agree?"

Sibyl blinked from behind her massive spectacles. "I really couldn't say," she said frostily. "Miss Granger does not see fit to confide in me, nor do I wish to force her confidence."

"Ah," said Septima.

"I think, Septima," said Severus, frowning disapprovingly at Sibyl, "that Gryffindor Tower would_not_ do in this instance. Her roommates are unsympathetic, as are many members of her House. In spite of her status as a war hero and as Potter's best friend, she is not generally well-liked by her peers."

Aurora's eyebrows went up again. "And you are in a position to know this, when Sibyl is not?"

Severus' frown grew more severe. "Sibyl has only recently become her Head of House, and has not had Her--" he stopped himself from saying her full name just in time "--in a classroom with her for many years," he amended awkwardly. "I, on the other hand, am her Master, and she is my Apprentice. It is my _duty_ to know these things."

"Nevertheless... Minerva, is it entirely appropriate for him to invite her to spend so much extracurricular time in his private work space?"

Minerva snorted. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Septima. I'm aware that Hermione has long been one of your favorite students, and I'm sorry if you feel put out that she chose to apprentice herself to Severus and not to you, but surely you aren't implying that Severus has any sort of dishonorable intentions towards her." She looked at Severus and, for the first time, he felt an uneasy fear that she might have an inkling of what had been recently taking place in his mind and heart.

"If you say so." Septima didn't look entirely convinced, and she narrowed her eyes at Severus.

He shrugged. "If any of you have a better suggestion, I am happy to withdraw my offer, but I will not have my apprentice driven to distraction by the insensitivity of her classmates and of Wizarding Britain at large, especially not so close to NEWTs. She is under enough strain as it is, and that is hardly conducive to safety in a Potions laboratory."

"We shall have to end here. It is nearly time for classes to commence, and I'm sure that you all will wish to have a few minutes prior in which to complete your last-minute preparations. I trust we are all agreed that this issue must be dealt with, in _every_ class?" Minerva stared at them all stonily, willing them to disagree.

But nobody did. Most of them appeared to be just as outraged as Severus himself was. It warmed him to think that she was not alone.

"Severus, wait behind just a moment, if you would."

He stopped, turning back to Minerva with a questioning look. "You require me for something else?" He searched her face, looking for any sign that she might be about to discuss... other things about Hermione.

"I have to meet with the examiners for the NEWTs in five minutes. Will you just glance over the latest reports from our overseas operatives? They need to be read this morning, and I simply haven't time."

He relaxed, relieved. "I have time to look over them before I must begin my Defense class, yes."

"You only need to make sure there are no immediately pressing matters that can't be left until tomorrow. It's awful, this whole business of NEWTs. I understand the necessity, of course, but it rather takes the fun out of being Headmistress."

He held the door open for her as she approached it. "At long last, you discovered why I resigned the post," he said dryly. "Dealing with the Department of Magical Education is not worth the headache, in my personal opinion. Enjoy your meeting, Minerva."

"The papers are on my desk, Severus. Thank you."

He bowed his head. "It is my job, Minerva."

She stopped and looked at him suspiciously. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong, Minerva?"

"You're being unusually obliging."

He shrugged. "I am most grateful for your consideration for Miss Granger. Her distress affects me... strongly, as you well know."

She patted his arm. "Of course--although, I'd have done the same even if the enchantment didn't exist."

"Naturally. I did not think you did it for me. I merely wished to express my gratitude that you do it for her."

Minerva smiled faintly at him, placing her hand on the doorknob to pull the door shut as she left. "You're welcome."

"Severus," said the familiar voice of Albus Dumbledore as soon as the door closed. "Tell me, how long have you been in love with her?"

Severus was already riffling through the papers on Minerva's desk, but when Dumbledore spoke, his hands stopped moving of their own accord. They stayed perfectly still for several seconds before he remembered himself and began working again as if everything were normal. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said stiffly.

"Nonsense." Dumbledore beamed at him from the wall. "This office being arranged the way it is, I could hardly help but overhear your conversation with Minerva just now. I have known you for the better part of your life, and you have only ever discussed one other woman like that."

He set one pile of parchment aside carefully. "Minerva did not appear to notice anything amiss."

"Minerva doesn't know you as well as I do, and I was referring to tone, not content. How long?"

He found the document he'd been looking for and sat down, pretending to read it. "The enchantment gives me reason enough to be solicitous for her well-being without bringing love into it."

"I might believe that, if you'd talked about her that way since the beginning."

He forced himself to actually read. "It has taken some time to... reconcile myself to the situation."

Dumbledore fished one of the ever-present sweets from one of his pockets. "And now you are so reconciled to it that you have made the very wise decision to fall in love with her." He popped it into his mouth, smacking his lips loudly. "I commend you on your practicality, Severus. Given your lifelong need to stay in some form of contact with her, it really is the simplest solution."

Severus merely growled.

"Eloquent as ever," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "You certainly proved me wrong."

He frowned. "Amusing, but juvenile. Surely you have better things to do than waste my time."

"No, not really. I confess that even with a brain such as mine, it can _occasionally_be tedious being a portrait. Everard, you see, has a habit of waxing loquacious about the defects of his portrait-taker, and I find it grows somewhat dull."

"I haven't time for dealing with busybodies."

Dumbledore smacked his lips again. "Of course not, of course not." He beamed still brighter. "So, having established most confidentially between ourselves that you are in love with her--"

"Dumbledore!"

"That you are in love with her," repeated Dumbledore placidly, "the thing that must now be determined is whether or not she returns your affections."

He snorted. "Are you completely mad?"

"Merely inspired by the blossoming of young love, my friend." He chuckled.

"Preposterous."

"She does, you know."

Very abruptly and very completely, Severus' mental processes halted.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, very slowly.

"But of course," said Dumbledore, looking sly, "if you have no such tender feelings for her, she would never wish you to know about them, and naturally, I shall respect that."

Severus gave himself several seconds in which to breathe deeply and remind himself that he could not hex a portrait. Then, accepting (with very bad grace) that he was out-maneuvered, he looked up again and met Dumbledore's eye.

"Tell me," he said gruffly.

The bright blue eyes twinkled above a triumphant smirk. "I thought as much."

"Spare me your gloating, Albus. What are you so very eager to tell me?"

"There's a room," said Dumbledore, "in the dungeons. No doubt you've seen it at one point or another; it resembles a study--the only one in the dungeons, as far as I know."

He frowned. "Beyond the Potions classrooms?"

"The very one! Have you ever inspected it closely?"

The truth was that he had not. He shrugged.

"The room contains two objects of particular interest to you at the moment. One of these is a mirror. The other is a small portrait frame. Sherbet lemon?"

"Albus, in case you have _utterly_ taken leave of your senses, your abominable sweets are no more real than you are."

"Top left desk drawer. Minerva keeps them in stock. As I was saying: a portrait frame and a mirror. The latter of these also happens to be of _great_ interest to Miss Granger at the moment."

He shuffled and re-shuffled Minerva's paperwork impatiently. "I fail to see a single reason why Miss Granger's vanity should hold any interest for me."

"This mirror has nothing to do with vanity."

Severus had spent nearly forty years growing acquainted with the ways of the magical world, and he knew enough about magic mirrors to keep his mouth shut at this point and let Dumbledore keep talking.

"Have you a Foe-glass, Severus?"

"Albus, I am an ex-Death Eater, a Master in a cutthroat field of magical art, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts. What sort of idiot do you take me for? Of course I have a Foe-glass."

"You know, then, the basic mechanism --to see the faces of your enemies and know if they are approaching."

"I assume this has a point."

"There was another such invention that functions along similar lines, but is far less well-known. I suppose that Wizards in this forgiving era have less fear of betrayal from their friends than they did in former days." He fingered his beard musingly.

Severus, ever aware that he was gazing at the face of a man he'd murdered, did not miss the irony.

"Be that as it may," said Dumbledore briskly, "there was another type of mirror, as I said, invented around the same time and functioning along similiar lines. However, it would more aptly be termed a _Friend_-glass than a Foe-glass."

He began to grow interested in the mirror itself, more than he'd intended to. "You mean to say, I gather, that it shows friends instead of enemies."

"A reasonable enough deduction, and a correct one. In fact, it shows any friend that you desire to see, and the truth of their feelings toward you."

Severus, though he still grasped dimly at the knowledge that Dumbledore had indicated that Hermione cared for him in some way, felt as if his stomach had just dropped out of his body. Aware that he probably looked as ill as he felt, he opened Minerva's desk drawer and located a sherbet lemon, eating it just for the sake of doing _something_.

Dumbledore nodded as if a long-held suspicion had just been confirmed. "You obviously understand the import of what I am telling you. Miss Granger, having stumbled across this mirror completely unawares, looked in to it and beheld the man who would, of course, be almost always at the forefront of her mind. That she beheld the dreadful truth about his burning love for her--well, that _is_ a pity."

"Albus," said Severus unhappily, "how could you possibly know all of this about... her?"

"As it happens, the other object of interest in the room happens to be not only a portrait frame, but _my_ portrait frame. I have always been fond of that room, and wished to be able to revisit it even when the power of total free movement was removed from me. However, I did not wish to disturb anyone else who might seek refuge there--it being a very peaceful room to visit--and so the frame is quite small and inconspicuously hung."

"But convenient to where you can view the mirror, I presume."

He smiled as if Severus had just got a particularly difficult problem correct on an exam. "Oh, naturally. I have always had an inquiring disposition, you know."

"Very well. So you have, then, been spying on Miss Granger in what she obviously believes to be a private retreat, and you have determined that she knows--that she has guessed certain things about me, making your earlier interrogation of me unnecessary."

"It was not unnecessary at all. I wished to see if you would admit it freely."

"She is a student, Dumbledore, and Harry Potter's best friend. I do not wish to foster... hopes... by speaking of her in a familiar way."

"Quite right, too," grunted Phineas Nigellus from his spot on the wall. "Conscientious as always, Severus."

"Thank you, headmaster," said Severus smoothly, shooting a triumphant look at Dumbledore.

"Except that she will be a student only for one more week. When NEWTs have been completed and the final feast held, she will be free to do as she chooses--as will you. What will the choice be?"

"You have given me no evidence to believe that any suit I brought would have even mild success. The fact that she speaks to me without loathing in spite of--of--knowing things that I would prefer to have been kept a secret is, I grant you... reassuring. But it is a greater leap than I can take to infer merely from that single fact that she--that she..."

"Loves you," supplied Dumbledore. "I agree. Manipulative I may be, Severus, but I am not uncautious, and I have always had your best interests in mind."

Severus snorted again.

Dumbledore spread his hands wide. "In the long view, at least. I do have more to say, however. She has returned to the room several times since discovering what it is that the mirror does, although she does not trust it. In fact, she has returned specifically to look in the mirror, and always specifically to look at _you_. From her behavior on these occasions, I have every confidence that she feels at least as strongly and certainly as positively about the matter as you do."

"I hardly think that my attitude could be called positive--"

"It is a wise man who can admit his faults, Severus. I am proud of you for it."

"Very funny, Albus."

"I was particularly touched by the episode in which she said your name (in the tenderest of tones, I might add) and went so far as to touch your face in the mirror. The pathos was nearly overwhelming."

"You are a meddling old--she _what_?"

"I thought you'd like to know about that." Dumbledore looked as if he'd just won an epic battle. "I suggest that you begin writing your dramatic confession-of-love speech now. It might take time to get it perfectly arranged, and you only have a week before she is, as one might say, a free agent."

"You're..." he began, but the insult that had been on his lips faded in the face of his mind's-eye view of Hermione, reaching forward to touch a reflection of his own face, a tender look in her eye, and-- "Enough of this!" he snapped. "I shall consider your words, Dumbledore, but if you expect me to rush off to engage in any sort of--of romantic nonsense, you are beyond mistaken."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "You have prevailed, Severus. But I hope--"

"And you will not breathe a word to Minerva, Albus, do you understand me?"

He smiled benignly at Severus. "Naturally, naturally. That is for you to share, in due time, when there is happy news to convey!"

"Shut up."

And Albus, contrary to all of Severus' expectations, did.

0 0 0

Lavender Brown, shuffling a newspaper loudly on her desk, gave Hermione a look that was openly questioning and appraising. Hermione flushed and slouched lower in her seat, wondering how on earth she was going to make it through Professor Snape's lecture, knowing that the rest of her classmates would be focusing on her instead of it. He was five minutes late, enough time for her to have run the gamut of possible emotions and returned to hoping desperately that he would understand her distress and rescue her from the scrutiny she was under.

"Wands out. Now," snapped Professor Snape as the classroom doors flew open. "Potter--" he said, but then his wand moved and pointed at Hermione. "_Expelliarmius!_" he roared, his deep voice echoing through the room. Hermione was caught off-guard, and her wand wrenched itself from her hand, sailing across the room. He caught it neatly. "Miss Granger," he growled, "you have just lost twenty points from your overall NEWT score."

"Sir?" she asked, more confused than upset.

"Had this been your _actual_ NEWT examination, and I your examiner, your lack of vigilance would have stood you in very poor stead indeed." Without ever so much as looking away from her--though he still did not ever meet her eyes--he pointed his wand behind his back, at Lavender. "_Tarantallegra_," he muttered.

Lavender fell from her desk, her legs kicking wildly in all directions.

"Twenty points, Miss Brown," he murmured, looking at Hermione for one more lingering moment before he turned around again, gazing mercilessly down at Lavender as she struggled to reach her wand, which she'd dropped, and perform the counter-curse. "How... disappointing. I had hoped that perhaps a few of you might--_petrificus totalus_, Miss Weasley--improve _slightly_ over the course of this year."

"_Protego_!" shouted Ginny, throwing her wand up in front of her face. The shield charm activated just in time, bouncing the spell harmlessly into the wall.

Professor Snape raised his eyebrow. "Admirable, Miss Weasley, although I note that you were the third student to be so ambushed, and therefore one can hardly describe it as an ambush at all."

He walked, finally, all the way down to the front of the class, surveying them all with his darkest and most intimidating glare. Hermione, to her horror, wasn't intimidated at all. In fact, she found it rather endearing.

"You will sit NEWTs one week from now. I expect no more than... perhaps.. Miss Granger, Mister Potter, the Weasleys, and Miss Lovegood to achieve greater than 'Acceptable,' and I will be greatly surprised if more than half of you come out with better than a D."

Hermione and the rest he'd named shifted in their seats, surprised at being singled out. Once more, she saw his eyes move to her, and she imagined that she could feel them, a literal weight pressing into her skin. She shivered and looked away, thinking of the mirror.

The damned mirror. She should never have kept looking after she realized what it was showing her.

They'd been drilling for months, had gone over and over every fundamental and advanced principle of Defense, but he didn't seem satisfied. Again and again, he called on them, barking out questions or hexes. And, far more than she would have expected, he looked at Hermione. She quickly looked away each time, afraid of being caught looking.

Had he always looked at her so much? Had it simply escaped her attention until she'd actively looked for it? Or was this a new development? She frowned down at the parchment on which she was taking notes (there was _never_ a classroom situation in which it was inappropriate to take notes, even when hexes and jinxes were flying in every direction). Perhaps he'd guessed somehow. Perhaps he'd found out.

It was only at the end of the class when she and her friends, thoroughly exhausted by the rigorous practice he'd put them through, were getting ready to go to their next lessons that Hermione realized that his dramatic entrance had thoroughly banished any thought of the newspaper article from her mind, and from the mouths of every other student in the room.

Thank God for small mercies.

When she was halfway down the corridor, someone tugged at her sleeve. She turned around, freezing when she saw who it was. "Neville," she said, with forced casualness. "Hello."

"Hi, Hermione." He said, his voice strained.

"Er--how are you?"

"Oh," he said vaguely, looking in every direction except her face, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah."

"On your way to Herbology?"

"Yeah, yeah I am. You?"

"Same here."

"Right," she said, wondering why he'd stopped her.

"Well, I could walk you there, if you like."

"To Herbology? Me?" She stared at him in open surprise.

"I--er--yeah."

Without being entirely sure why she did so, she looked around hastily to see if Professor Snape was nearby before she nodded. "All right," she said, a little uncertainly. "We'd better go, then, or we're going to be late."

"Right," said Neville, nodding.

They began walking again, sharing a very uncomfortable silence. When they were out on the grounds, he stopped again and took a deep breath, a look of resolve setting on his face.

"Look," he said, "about last night--"

"Neville--"

"Just let me talk, okay? I--I'm not happy about it. At all. I'm pretty angry, actually, and hurt, and--but--well, I just want you to know that just because you're in love with... _him_... that doesn't mean I'm not in love with you anymore. And you don't have to worry--I'm not about to go telling everyone about it."

To her very great surprise, she realized that she had tears in her eyes. "Thanks," she whispered.

"And--well, I didn't need to read that paper, of course; I was there. But in case you weren't really sure about it, I think that what Draco did was absolutely despicable, and--and you're the bravest, smartest, most beautiful girl I've ever met, Hermione. I just wanted to make sure that you knew that... someone recognizes that about you."

"I'm sorry," she said in a rush, the tears moving down her cheeks now. "I'm sorry I couldn't feel the same way, Neville. I tried. Honestly I did, I wasn't trying to--to lead you on." She was crying in earnest now, her shoulders shaking with the force of her guilt. She covered her face with her hands, struggling to control herself.

Neville looked at her uncomfortably, apparently not having expected Hermione to react more emotionally to her lack of love for him than he himself had done. "It's okay," he said awkwardly, reaching forward to pat her shoulder. "Please don't cry."

"I'm s-sorry!" she sobbed, "I'm such a horrible f-friend!"

"No you're not." He was looking more distressed by the minute, glancing around to see who was watching them. "_Please_ don't cry, Hermione. Come on, give me a hug. It's okay."

Hermione, sniffling and wiping at her nose, allowed herself to be gathered into what was quite possibly the most awkward hug she'd ever received. Even as she nuzzled tearfully into Neville's shoulder, she couldn't help but notice that he didn't smell right (and remember, by contrast, the hint of Professor Snape's scent that she'd caught so recently), and that his hands felt simply _wrong_ as they stroked her back so gently.

"Please don't cry," he repeated once more. "I'm sorry if I was mean. I was just upset. I'm sorry, Hermione, this is all my fault."

"N-no," she said, lifting her head again and wiping her nose with the handkerchief that he'd produced from nowhere. Having met his grandmother, Hermione was not surprised in the least that he carried one, nor that it was fine linen, with his initials embroidered in Gryffindor colors in one corner of it. "It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just feel so terrible about it."

"Come on," he said, glancing at the greenhouses. "Let's go. We're going to be late. It will be okay, Hermione. I'll be fine, and you'll be fine, and--and well, I won't say I don't hope things will change, but whatever happens, I hope you'll be happy."

"Thanks." She managed a watery smile, which he returned encouragingly. They turned in silence and began walking to the greenhouses again.

When they reached them, Professor Sprout was standing at the head of the class, an unusually stern expression on her face.

"Ah, Miss Granger," she said, frowning. "You are the very person we wish to discuss at the moment."

Hermione blanched, clutching at the strap of her satchel and looking around at her fellow students. Everyone was looking at her. "Er--" she said nervously.

"Every one of you, I am sure, has seen this," said Professor Sprout, holding up that morning's edition of _The Daily Prophet_. There were a few nods and mumbles of assent. "Those of you in possession of copies, please produce them." She waited a beat, and then narrowed her eyes. "_Now_."

There was the all-too-familiar rustle of newsprint, which Hermione had already learned to dread, and she watched unhappily as every single one of them drew out a newspaper. Several had multiple copies. She winced.

"Now," said Professor Sprout grimly, "shred them."

"What?" exclaimed a sixth-year Hufflepuff indignantly. "Professor, it's--"

"I said, _shred_ them," she said, her expression fierce. "I will not have this sort of garbage in my greenhouses. It is fit for one thing, and one thing only, and you will be using it as compost for my plants. The Wizengamot ought to be ashamed of itself, and _The Prophet_ is just as bad--taking advantage of your classmate's suffering to further their own ends. Fifty points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for your bravery in the face of such ill-treatment!"

Professor Sprout's lips were quivering, and Hermione stared at her in awe, as did several other students. She had hardly been expecting such a passionate defense from this quarter--but perhaps she should have. She had always got on well with Professor Sprout, after all, and the teacher wasn't Head of Hufflepuff for no reason.

The rustling turned into the noise of more than a dozen newspapers being shredded into confetti. Hermione and Neville took advantage of the noise to split apart and go to their normal spots, setting their bags down and removing their Herbology gear.

"That was brilliant," whispered Harry, as Hermione drew a notebook out and began mentally preparing for yet another lecture about NEWTs in what had become an endless litany of such lectures.

"Yeah," she said, keeping her eyes on her bag. "I wish she hadn't had to say it though."

"Of course you do." He reached over and squeezed her arm. "But at least she took your side. Some people will read anything, and they want to believe anything that's hurtful about someone else. Even nice people do. Even nice people who_like_ you do, sometimes."

She glanced at him, recalling all of the things that had happened to teach him that particular lesson, and smiled weakly. "Thanks, Harry."

"It's nothing." He shrugged awkwardly and looked up as Professor Sprout summoned all of the bits of shredded newspaper and dumped them unceremoniously into a compost pile. "I'll be glad when NEWTs are done, just so they'll stop telling us how important they are," he muttered fervently, as they both pulled on dragon-hide gloves and protective goggles.

Hermione muttered a quick charm over her quill to take notes for her while she advanced on yet another spitting, writhing, highly dangerous magical plant. "Me too," she agreed. "Anyway--you hold it down, will you? You're stronger than I am."

"Can't you petrify it?"

They both looked at the writhing plant appraisingly. "No," she said, after a few seconds. "It doesn't respond to typical spells. You've got to actually hold it down, and it has to be pruned with silver shears--it'll break the regular ones." She sighed. "Don't you _ever _read the textbooks, Harry?"

He shrugged, grabbing the plant in both hands, his muscles straining as he attempted to pin it down. "Sure," he grunted. "I was just testing you."

0 0 0

She retreated to the laboratory as soon as her classes were over, and he greeted the delicate chiming of the wards in his office with a sense of self-satisfaction. It was a pleasure such as he had rarely known to feel that he had provided something for her that she truly needed, something that nobody else could have given.

"Winky," he said, summoning the first House-Elf he thought of.

There was a _crack_, and she appeared beside his desk, looking just as run-down as ever. "Professor Snape is needing assistance?" she asked halfheartedly.

"Please return to the kitchens and alert the other Elves that Miss Granger will be dining in my private laboratory study once again, and that they are to expect her to take her meals there for several days after this. I would like a tray to be sent to her promptly at dinnertime, with all of the customary trappings."

Winky curtseyed deferentially and disappeared again.

Severus, for his part, leaned back in his chair and looked at the shelves lining his office, covered with curios, books, and various things in jars, all very neatly arranged. Dumbledore had given him a great deal to think about. His gaze moved slowly back down to his desk, on which he had laid a small but immensely detailed map of the dungeons. He brought one finger to rest over the room which, he now knew, held the mirror that had indirectly led to this new revelation.

He was nearly overcome with the desire to look into it, but he feared what he would see. Perhaps Dumbledore was wrong. What if she had gazed into it out of loathing, rather than longing? Dumbledore had lied to him before, had misrepresented things. It was not at all beyond the old man to paint Hermione's affection for him as far more than it was, in actual point of fact.

On the other hand, if he looked, and she _did _love him...

He shook his head, waving a hand over the map. It folded itself into a small, neat little square, and he tucked it away into his desk once more. He wouldn't look. He couldn't. Not yet, at least. Perhaps sometime, when the first swell of ardor had cooled itself somewhat. It wouldn't do to go rushing in. He was no longer a seventeen year old boy who could not control his passions; that boy had learned his lesson well. At the very least, he knew far better now how to wait until his emotions were more easily controlled. If he rushed in, if he stuck his foot in things rather than waiting and planning carefully, he might only scare her away. She was so very young and, in spite of all that she had endured, some things about her were still so very innocent.

He closed his eyes, calling her face to his mind, allowing himself a rare moment of dreaming. What if she _could_ be his? It would be bliss beyond his imagining to be welcomed into her arms, for her fingers, her small, delicate hands to lift his heavy hair from his forehead and cool it with her touch, for her lips--ah, God! her beautiful lips--to press to his and kiss him, as they had in that dream so many weeks ago.

He opened his eyes again, breathing deeply. It did not do to be caught up in fantasy, no matter what Dumbledore said. He would wait, and he would bide his time. He was a Slytherin--the _Head_ of Slytherin. He would not act until he saw some evidence of her feelings that did not rely on some mirror. He did not trust mirrors not to lie, especially mirrors that he'd never heard of before.

The wards chimed softly again, a different tone this time, and he knew that a House-Elf had delivered her dinner tray. He got to his feet, shuffling his pieces of parchment and putting them away again. He would go to the laboratory. There was always busywork to do, and he felt peaceful when he knew that she was close by, even if she was a room away. As time went on, he grew more and more aware that his soul was no longer whole within his body. She was a part of it, and to feel entirely like himself, he had to be near her.

It was both his greatest hope and his greatest fear that she might be affected, eventually, in the same way.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Tee-hee.. we are getting very close now, my friends. 


	61. The End

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

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**Chapter 61: The End**

* * *

Hermione didn't know, and didn't like to ask herself, why the dinner tray arrived. It could have been the House-Elves, simply aware somehow of her presence in the study. Or, it could have been him. He certainly had gone out of his way to be kind and considerate since her apprenticeship had commenced. She touched one sleeve of her robes; it was soft and warm, the fabric undeniably fine. She didn't remember ever seeing anything like it before, except perhaps on his own person, and she'd never had the opportunity to touch that. 

She picked up her fork, pushing a piece of chicken around on her plate. It didn't do to think about touching Professor Snape's robes, or anything else having to do with his body. Carefully redirecting her thoughts, she drew a Transfiguration text across the table and bent over it, chewing her chicken distractedly for long minutes before remembering to swallow and take another bite.

Eventually, the tension that had plagued her throughout the day began to lessen. She relaxed into her chair, growing more absorbed in her reading, a sense of contentment stealing gradually over her.

She didn't notice when the quiet noises in the adjacent room began. She simply became aware, at some point, that Professor Snape was in the laboratory, doing some sort of work. He had to know she was there, but, as he didn't call her, she continued with her studying. If he had a job for her, he would let her know.

Listening to him, she allowed herself a few moments of fantasy. After eight years of war, she was ready to settle down and be quiet for a while. The things that had appealed to her before still appealed to her, but they had a different look to them now. There was something so pleasantly domestic about sitting in the study and listening to the sounds of the man she loved working in the next room, knowing that if she spoke, he would hear her voice immediately and, she felt sure, would come to her.

She shook her head ruefully and finished writing in the last available space on her roll of parchment, casting a drying charm on the ink before she selected a new roll. It was all very well to imagine scholarly domestic bliss, but it didn't do to imagine it with Professor Snape as anything other than Potions Master, mentor, or, if she were very lucky, friend.

She could hear the rhythmic noise of chopping through the door. It didn't matter, as long as she could be near him. Just knowing that he was in the next room was enough for her.

0 0 0

It was nearly five hours before Severus finally gave up and admitted that he might not be able to wait her out. He silently cursed every duty that made it impossible to linger in the lab until she left it herself. Then he cursed himself over the fact that he was lingering only to catch a single glimpse of her face.

"What love has wrought," he muttered under his breath, and then stopped, forced to smile at himself. He was even incapable of complaining about her without admitting that he loved her.

As he cleaned up his equipment, carefully hand-scouring his knives and cauldron, he listened anxiously for any noise from the library. None came

It would be all right if he just stuck his head in for a moment. It was _his_ library after all. He might need a book from it. She surely couldn't expect him never to enter while she was using it. Besides, it was getting to be late at night. He would overlook it--just this once--if she broke curfew, but he certainly wasn't going to be kept out of his own library.

He combed his fingers through his hair, aware that it was as lank and damp with steam from his cauldron as it ever was. It didn't matter, did it? If she was really in love with him, as Dumbledore said, then she had already learned to cope with the fact that his job entailed a lot of time with wet, slightly dirty hair, and much less time washing it. If she wasn't in love with him, which Severus feared was the real truth, then a little thing like his hair surely wouldn't be the thing that tipped the balance in either direction.

He stood outside the door for a full two or three minutes before finally steeling his resolve and opening it.

"Miss Granger, I--" he began, but he stopped when he saw her, his made-up excuse about a book dying on his lips.

The library table looked as if a small explosion had taken place on it. Her dinner tray sat, pushed away, in one corner. Every other available space was taken up with textbooks, parchment, and two bottles of ink (one appearing to have run out).

Hermione, though, wasn't writing.

Her head was down on the table, pillowed on her arms. Her hair, which she insisted on keeping so very severely tied back, had come loose, and it spilled over her face and shoulders like a coppery-brown cloud. If he leaned over her, he could just see her closed eyes and the smooth curve that led from her eyebrow to the bridge of her nose.

He was already familiar with the way that she looked when she slept. He had watched her in Australia and on the plane trip back as carefully as he would watch the trickiest of potions. He had never had an opportunity to be so very close to her before, though. In Australia, he hadn't wished to. On the plane, there had been others there to observe him, even if he _had_ wished to.

Now, there was nobody. Taking another look at her face to reassure himself that she was really asleep, he bent very, very slowly over her, bringing his head down until his nose was mere millimeters from her hair.

She smelled amazing. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, the fragrance reminding him of a dozen things and nothing all at once. He had never smelled anything so... perfect.

He drew back slightly and opened his eyes, moving with all the precision and care that had made him the best Potions Master in Britain. Carefully, as carefully as he had ever done anything in his life before, he lifted his hand and let his fingertips brush against her wild tangle of curls.

Emboldened when she didn't wake, he carefully picked up one single, thick ringlet, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Her hair was heavy and smooth. He let the ringlet curl around his finger.

Then his eyes moved to her sleeping face again,and it occurred to him that he would have to explain what on earth he was doing if she woke up while his nose and hands were in her hair. He let go of the ringlet as if it had burned him and immediately stepped back.

But she didn't wake. After a minute or so, he was convinced that she wouldn't. It was a relief; he had no interest in explaining what he was doing watching her so closely while she slept. Although, he reasoned, it wasn't as though he had done anything wrong. He was merely a man, inspecting the woman who'd had the audacity to fall asleep in his private library.

He debated as to whether or not he should wake her. She looked exhausted, now that he had an opportunity to inspect her as closely as he constantly wished that he could do. There were circles under her eyes, and a single, very fine line forming between her eyebrows, so tiny that he could only see it if he looked from a few inches away.

He decided to let her sleep. He didn't fancy the awkward moment that would surely ensue if he woke her, and by the time she was back at Gryffindor Tower, she would probably have been invigorated enough to stay up and continue studying instead of getting more much-needed sleep. Severus was privately convinced (and knew for a fact that her other Professors were, too) that nothing short of total absenteeism would stop her from achieving O's on every single one of her NEWTs.

He would let her sleep.

As quietly as he could, he drew his wand and cast a quick cushioning charm to make the table more comfortable beneath her head. She stirred, rubbing her cheek against her arms and settling in comfortably, the softest of sighs escaping her. The sound gave him goose-bumps, and he held his breath, waiting until she was perfectly still before he moved again.

Her parchment and books, he left. He had been a scholar long enough to recognize that she had them organized in some manner that made sense to her, and he had no wish to disrupt her system. He did, however, levitate the tray from the table and send it floating into the laboratory, whence he could have it retrieved by House-Elves without running as great a risk of waking her.

He was on the point of walking out when a thought stopped him. He turned slowly around, berating himself all the while for even giving momentary consideration to the idea that had just insinuated itself into his mind. Then, with sudden resolve, he drew his wand again and silently conjured a tall, simply-formed glass, setting it on the table beside her. Pointing his wand at the glass, he murmured, "_Aguamenti_," and watched as it filled with water.

When the glass was full, he kept his wand pointed at it, telling himself that he ought to vanish it. Was he utterly mad?

But she would already know that he had been there. The Hogwarts House-Elves might remove the tray, but they wouldn't cast a cushioning charm under her head, and they most certainly _would_ tidy up her study materials. Was it so bad to leave a glass of water for her, a simple gift from a man with long years of experience in waking up at study tables with a dry mouth and bleary eyes?

No. He let his wand-hand drop to his side. If he meant to court her, however subtly, this was... adequate, for the time being.

He turned and left before he could change his mind, casting a cooling spell at the glass as he left. There was no point in leaving her a glass of water if it was warm and unpalatable when she awoke.

0 0 0

Hermione woke up in the very early morning, her neck stiff and sore, and a small spot of saliva on her arm. Embarrassed, she charmed her arm dry and ran her hands through her hair--or tried to; it was a thick, bushy tangle, and she knew from long experience that trying to tame it without copious amounts of Sleekeazy and a good brush was an exercise in futility.

The lights were still on, illuminating the library with their warm, yellow glow. The tray had disappeared at some point, ostensibly removed by House-Elves. As she sat up and stretched, though, she noticed something else.

A tall glass of water sat beside her, just within reach.

She stretched her hand out and touched it; it was real, still cool and fresh. She brought it to her lips, which were, admittedly, quite dry, and took a sip. It was delicious and clean. It never even occurred to her that it might not be safe to drink. Who could enter but the Hogwarts Elves, Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall, Madame Pomfrey, and Hermione herself? She trusted all of them implicitly.

When she'd finished half the water and was licking her lips, spreading the welcome moisture across them, she set it down on the table and looked at it intently. House-Elves wouldn't leave her water. They tolerated her, but she was still unpopular with them, except for Kreacher and Dobby. Dobby was gone, and Kreacher was at Grimmauld Place. That left Professor Snape as the most likely candidate.

Her heart began to beat a little faster. Had he come in and seen her sleeping, then? She turned the glass slowly, looking for fingerprints, or anything to indicate that it might have been he who left it there, but she saw nothing.

She stopped turning it, but left her fingertips resting on the rim. He'd left her a glass of water once before--or, at least, she was _nearly _sure that he had, that night at Grimmauld Place. Perhaps he'd remembered that, and thought she might once more awaken, hot and thirsty in the middle of the night.

Something jolted in her chest, a little twinge of hope and excitement. Had he left it as a message? Was the mirror, perhaps, trustworthy, at least to a degree? It was so unlike the caricature of himself that he had maintained for so long. The Professor Snape of her childhood would never do something so simple and yet so considerate as leave her a glass of water to drink in the night. What on earth did he mean by it, if not that he cared for her at least a little?

Hermione didn't have a watch on her, and there wasn't a clock in the room. Still, she could tell that it was late. Very late. She cast a finicky little nonverbal charm and counted the silvery chimes that rang through the room. Four o'clock in the morning. It was almost time to get up, and so she didn't see much point in going all the way up to Gryffindor tower for bed.

She picked up a spare roll of parchment, transfigured it into a small brush and mirror, and set about attempting to tame her hair. It took her nearly twenty minutes to get it back under some semblance of control, and even then it refused to be wrestled into any sort of really tidy control. She frowned at the mirror. Stray ringlets and tendrils fell around her face, and promised to irritate her to no end by tickling her temples and the back of her neck.

She shook her head, resigned. It was the best she could do, with the materials she had to hand. She simply wasn't vain enough to return to Gryffindor tower for a hair potion when NEWTs were only a few days away.

Standing up, she began to pack her study materials away, tucking them neatly into her satchel. When she was nearly finished, something made her pause. She moved the bag aside and placed one hand down flat on the table where it had been sitting.

A cushioning charm. She blinked,and then cast a revealing spell on it, just to be sure.

It _had_ to have been him, then.

Smiling shyly, even though he wasn't nearby to see, she patted the tabletop, and then finished putting the last of her things away. Only when she was at the door and holding it open did she turn halfway around and cast _finite incantatem_ at the table.

She didn't go far, even then. Hanging her bag up on the wall in the laboratory proper, she retrieved a jar of flobberworms from the storeroom and began to chop them. When he arrived, two hours later, she'd chopped four jars, with what she hoped was perfect accuracy. He bent over her to inspect them as she chopped, and once again she caught an intoxicating hint of his scent.

He didn't exactly compliment her work, but he nodded and vanished them without criticism. "You may attempt to properly skin a shrivelfig next," he said, and that was a great enough sign of his approval to make her almost giddy with happiness and pride.

He turned his back to her and went about his own work--brewing a burn paste for Madame Pomfrey--and she fetched a basket of shrivelfigs from the storeroom. She'd soon settled back into an easy rhythm of work, and she sighed in contentment as she peeled the figs, enjoying the pleasure of a shared solitude.

For the next hour, as far as Hermione Granger was concerned, there was nobody alive in all of Hogwarts, except for them.

0 0 0

Several days later, Severus straightened the cuffs of his sleeves carefully before he knocked on the door that stood before him. His hair was freshly washed, his hands scoured clean of their ever-present calluses and stains. The knock was answered almost immediately, and he was invited in.

He hesitated for only a second, looking down at the threshold of the door. He had formed his desperate resolution. This was his Rubicon, his moment of radical action, and there would be no turning back.

He crossed it.

"Severus," said Minerva, smiling at him from her desk and waving at a seat. "Come in."

"Thank you." He nodded, just a bit stiffly, and sat down in the same chair he always took.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you."

She nodded. Methodically, she gathered up her quills and parchment and arranged them in a neat pile on her desk. Then she looked directly at him. "What did you wish to discuss with me?"

"This may strike you as both unexpected and unusual," he said slowly, holding his wand in his hands and turning it slowly this way and that.

"Yes?" she prompted, when Severus didn't continue.

He focused his eyes on the window behind her shoulder to keep them from darting nervously around the room. "I wish to discuss a matter with you that touches on my... relationship with Miss Granger."

Minerva's eyes narrowed and fixed on him in a manner that did nothing to make him more comfortable. "I see."

"You are my employer, and when Miss Granger formally ceases to be a student, you will be hers as well. You are also my superior in the Order, and hers."

She frowned. "Is something the matter, Severus?"

"I am--I wish--that is, I would like to request your advice on a matter of some... delicacy." He looked at Minerva, who was watching him with an expression far more appropriate to a cat than a woman, and swallowed. "I have decided," he said slowly, "that I wish to... marry her."

"I beg your pardon?" said Minerva blankly.

"I intend to marry her," he said.

Never in the whole of his life had Severus seen Minerva McGonagall look so stunned. "Severus, do you mean to tell me that you're in love with Hermione?"

Severus looked uncomfortably at nothing in particular, unwilling to utter the words to her, no matter how insistently they sang in his thoughts.

"I see," said Minerva, after several minutes, the look of shock still on her face. "And you want my advice?"

He cleared his throat. "For reasons that I already explained."

"But... Severus," said Minerva helplessly, "she's so... young."

He winced. "A fact of which I am painfully aware, Minerva. Believe me, it does not add to her charms."

"Well," said Minerva, "that's a sensible way to look at things, at least." She rose from her seat and moved to the fire, casting a sharp look at Albus' portrait. He appeared to be sleeping most peacefully, as did every other Headmaster and Headmistress in the room. "You understand, of course," she said, "that since you are both of age, you aren't _technically _required to ask for--"

"I know," said Severus quickly. "However, given the circumstances of our... acquaintance... I would not wish to forgo any of the formalities. Propriety is of the utmost concern."

"Of course," she said, somewhat vaguely.

He straightened slightly, setting his face as resolutely if it were made from stone. "You understand, of course, that even if you choose to withhold your approval, I will proceed."

"I certainly believe that." Her mouth worked for a moment as she attempted to gather her thoughts, and then she turned to him, clasping her hands together. "But I'm--well, I'm absolutely shocked, Severus, there's no other way to say it. I was under the impression that you didn't--good heavens, you want to _marry_ her? Isn't that a bit sudden?"

"No," he said shortly.

"I don't follow."

"Minerva, we have shared a... connection... for nearly a year, at this point; it is far more intimate than most married couples can ever expect, even among Wizards. It will only grow closer in the future, and I have recently come to realize that I would... prefer it if she did not join herself to somebody else. It is only reasonable, therefore, that I endeavor to attach her to me."

"Then you don't love her?"

He sat straighter still, clenching his hands on the arms of his chair. "I did not say that."

"Ah," she murmured.

"If you wish me to refrain from declaring my attentions to her on school property, or from acting upon them while she is still undergoing her period of apprenticeship, I will endeavor to abide by your preferences," he said unwillingly.

"When did you imagine this marriage taking place?"

"She is presently unaware of my... preference." He flexed his fingers against his chair again, uncomfortable even with skirting so close to a discussion of his intimate feelings. "I would not think of an actual marriage taking place until after the completion of her apprenticeship."

"And you love her?"

He suppressed his desire to shudder at the typical Gryffindor ham-handedness. "Yes," he said, grinding the word out from between clenched teeth, all too aware that she would continue to ask until he confessed it aloud.

She sniffed. "You needn't sound so miserable about it. You'd be lucky to have her."

He lowered his eyes to the floor. "I know."

"Well," she said, shrugging helplessly, "I won't lie and say I'm not shocked, or that I'm entirely happy about it--nor that I'm entirely unhappy about it, either, I suppose. However, I am intelligent enough to bow in the face of the inevitable, and I see no point in attempting to stand in the way of fate. _Coniugium Mentium Verarum_-I wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to lie about its effects."

He finally raised his eyes to her, aware that it would betray far more of his feelings than he wished to have generally known, but too elated to care. "You are willing, then, for me to proceed?"

Minerva sighed, removing her spectacles and rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Yes, I believe I am, Merlin help me. I had rather expected her to end up with the Weasley boy, or maybe Longbottom, but really, I believe you're a better match for her, even if you _are_ a Slytherin."

He allowed himself the faintest of smirks, and inclined his head.

"However," she said, replacing her spectacles and resuming her severe expression, "there is one thing I absolutely must say to you before I let you go ahead unhindered with this... courtship."

"Yes, Minerva?" The hardest part of the conversation over with, he suddenly felt exhausted, and he simply wished to return to his own, quiet laboratory--and Hermione.

"Promise me that you will not marry or even attempt to court Hermione until you are certain--_certain_, mind you--that you have no more feelings for Lily."

"Minerva, I--"

"Don't," she snapped, suddenly transformed once more into the formidable witch that he knew her to be. "I'm not saying this lightly. It isn't right. Harry Potter is one of her best friends. If you can't fully accept and live with that as an adult and as her husband, don't bother. It would be cruelty on your part, to both of you."

"I do not love Lily," said Severus.

"You're sure? Not at all?"

"Dumbledore allowed-- that is, I cared for her far longer than might be considered... natural. You are aware of that, I think. Things have changed."

"Very well, then. If you swear to me that you love her, and only her, then you have my blessing, I suppose, and I imagine that time will get me used to the idea. I do expect you, however, to abide by the law and restrain yourself until after she has completed her NEWTs and is no longer a student. Examinations begin tomorrow. You can wait until the end of the week, can't you?"

Severus rose from his seat, bowing slightly. "I would not have dreamed of doing otherwise, Minerva."

"Very well," she said, sighing and taking another look in Dumbleore's direction. He let out a delicate snore, and Minerva snorted. "You were quite right to consult me, Severus" she said. "I'd have been livid if you didn't, you know. I know we aren't supposed to have favorites from amongst the students, but I've always been quite fond of her."

"Naturally," he said, his hand already on the door, his thoughts already with Hermione, and the following week.

0 0 0

"Tomorrow," said Hermione for the hundredth time. "They're tomorrow. I'm not ready, Harry. Tomorrow!"

"Gee, Harry, d'you think they're tomorrow?" asked Ron, lying upside-down on one of the Common Room couches and conducting inaudible music with his wand.

"Dunno, Ron," said Harry, removing his quill from Ginny's hair, where he'd stuck it while he dug in his bag for another bottle of ink. "I think they might be."

"Shut up," said Ginny absently, removing her own quill from her hair so that she could make a note on one of a dozen sheets of parchment spread out in front of her. "Harry, what are the twelve uses of Dragon's Blood?"

"Who cares?" said Ron, "that's an OWL question, Gin, not a NEWT one. What're you asking about that for?"

She pursed her lips, looking momentarily very much like her mother. "Because, you great twit, NEWTs are _harder _than OWLs. That doesn't mean that you get to forget all the things you learned for OWLs. It means you need to remember them, plus more."

"Bloody hell."

"You're in trouble, mate," said Harry, grinning at his best friend.

Hermione sat on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books and parchment and near hysteria. "I'm going to forget everything," she said frantically. "I'm going to forget it all. I _am_, Ginny. I'm going to walk in there, and I'm going to look at the examiners, and it's going to be gone, just like that."

"Remind me why I thought she was good under pressure," said Ron.

"Shut up," said Ginny again.

"Make me."

"Oi!" said Dean, stepping through the portrait hole, Seamus close behind. "Are we too late for Hermione's panic attack?"

"Just in time, actually," said Ginny calmly. "Have a seat. Hermione, you're going to be just fine. Everybody knows that you're a ridiculous genius, and you're going to get O's in everything."

"And even if you didn't," added Seamus, "you already have your apprenticeship with Snape. It isn't like you'll be short for a job."

"That isn't the _point_," said Hermione desperately.

"Of course not," soothed Ginny. "Don't worry about it. You'll be brilliant."

"_You're_ brilliant," said Harry, grinning at his wife and looking as if he couldn't believe his good fortune in having her around.

"I think I may vomit," said Ron. "And what _are_ the twelve uses of dragon's blood?"

0 0 0

At breakfast the next morning, Severus found that he couldn't eat. He drank two cups of coffee and remained at the table, sandwiched between Filius and Pomona, watching Hermione (who wasn't eating either) dig through notes, study guides, and textbooks with the look of a drowning woman. A few times, he thought back to the same morning so many years ago. He had approached it with a cooler demeanor, but no less anxiety than Hermione was currently displaying.

Filius and Pomona were busily predicting NEWT scores for their pet students. Severus poured another cup of coffee.

"Weasley will achieve an O in Charms, I'm absolutely certain," said Filius, with an air of considerable pride. "I freely admit, I was very surprised by his examination scores at the beginning of the year; he's the last one I would have expected to tutor privately. But, it seems he's finally decided to buckle down and follow in the footsteps of the rest of his family. His brothers, the twins, they were quite brilliant with Charms. Such a shame about young Fred."

"Neville Longbottom's a sure bet for an O in Herbology," said Pomona. "What do you think of his prospects in Defense and Potions, Severus?"

He curled his lip disdainfully. "Longbottom is an ass," he said coldly, "and I do not give the faintest shred of a damn _what_ he achieves on his NEWTs, Pomona."

"I beg your pardon," said Pomona, in a tone as frosty as his. "I wasn't aware you felt that way."

Minerva, seated on Poppy's other side, leaned forward. "Feeling a bit anxious on behalf of your favorite students, Severus?" she asked, with a deplorably insinuating smile.

"Hardly," he snapped. "I do not make favorites of fools."

When Hermione left the Hall, so did Severus, retreating to his office to finish the last of his marking for the year. Within half an hour, he had a raging headache, had finished his marking, and was left with nothing to do but to prowl the halls looking for misbehaving students and descending on them with imprecations and threats.

He waited until five minutes before the doors were set to be locked and then betook himself to the Great Hall to observe the NEWT examinations. Most of the other professors joined him, with the exception of Hooch and Trelawney, who he didn't particularly miss. Nobody spoke; it would be grounds for being kicked out of the room during the written portion of the test.

Hermione was seated just a few rows away, and in a most convenient location; he could look directly at her without turning his head to the left or to the right, and so he did. The written examination lasted for nearly four hours, and he took advantage of the time to feast his eyes on her in a way that he almost never had the opportunity to do.

Occasionally she looked up and glanced around the room, and he felt as if he could reach out and feel her anxiety as a palpable thing. It took nearly an hour for her to notice that he was there, and he avoided meeting her eyes, afraid of--something. Once she'd seen him, she looked at him frequently, although he took care that she would not realize that he noticed. There would be time to tell her of it later, if his hopes were realized.

And those hopes... as he watched her, he let his mind wander, if only to distract himself from his nervousness on her behalf. She would perform admirably, of course; he was not nervous. He was merely concerned over _her_ anxiety. Still, that concern was enough to make him wish for a distraction, and dreams of her provided an ideal one.

Perhaps he ought to sell Spinner's End. It hardly seemed the sort of place to bring a young wife home to. It could be modified, he supposed. Flitwick, if he were let in on the secret, would surely be persuaded to perform a few extension Charms, and he was vaguely aware that there were people who could be hired to spruce up interiors of houses like his.

On the other hand, he wasn't sure it would be right to live with his own wife in the home where his mother had been so unhappy. He would need to ask Poppy. It seemed to be the sort of thing she would know.

Four hours passed surprisingly quickly, and the students rose with a collective sigh of relief and shuffled out of the room. Severus retreated to his office to stare into the fire and wait for tomorrow.

0 0 0

Hermione couldn't sleep. She lay in bed, practicing wand movements again and again, worrying about the time she'd lost while she'd been unable to do magic. She was going to do poorly on her practical examinations, except for Potions, she was quite sure.

Slowly, her mind began to wander, until, instead of the coming day, she was thinking of the one that had just ended. In the past, she'd obsessed over test questions, agonizing over whether she'd got them right or not. Now, instead, she remembered Professor Snape.

He'd been watching her, she was almost sure, although she'd never quite been able to catch him at it. When she'd been looking at her exam parchment, she thought she could feel his eyes on her, and, although he was never looking directly at her when she looked up, his face had an expression on it that was very similar indeed to the one he'd worn in the mirror.

"_Expecto Patronum_," she whispered into the darkness, and the fox emerged from her wand and hovered above her, blinking its unfathomable eyes and turning graceful circles in the air.

She smiled and fell asleep, thinking of him, her wand still clutched in her hand and the Patronus hovering above her, casting a faint, silver light across her pillow.

0 0 0

Her Patronus had changed.

He distinctly remembered the otter she'd cast during Defense lessons at the beginning of the year, because it had disgusted him so profoundly. An otter, no doubt because Weasley lived in Ottery St. Catchpole. Even her subconscious mind had all the subtlety of a brick... or so he'd thought at the time.

Now, however--he squinted his eyes to see better. It was _definitely_ not an otter. Otters did not have ears like that, and the tail was all wrong.

"Lovely," murmured Flitwick beside him, "an arctic fox, if I'm not mistaken. I see no markings--pure white--and perfectly cast, too."

"It's changed," Severus muttered.

"Has it?" asked Flitwick, his huge eyes suddenly widening still more. "When did that happen?"

"I have not the faintest idea," he snapped. "What makes you imagine I'd know?"

"I am merely interested," said Flitwick, giving him a very keen look. "It is rare for a witch or wizard's Patronus to change, and for two such changes to occur, relatively close to one another both in time and location, when there were such... unusual circumstances involved in one instance--well, it is most unusual."

"Miss Granger has experienced a great deal of emotional upheaval this year," said Severus, "as you are well aware."

"Mm," murmured Flitwick, looking across the room again, where her Patronus, hackles raised, was baring its teeth at a Dementor. "You were the one to locate her in Australia, were you not?"

Severus glared at the Patronus. "Yes."

"Ah," said Flitwick, and wisely let the matter drop.

As Severus had anticipated, her performance at every juncture was outstanding, and it was all he could do to keep himself from applauding when she and the other students in her group completed their last round of practical examinations and headed back towards the door.

He watched her leave with relief and pride glowing in his chest, but didn't get up until the last group of students was finished. Only then did he rise and cross to where they stood, eagerly discussing their hoped-for results and their plans for their post-Hogwarts lives.

"Mister Potter," said Severus, coming up behind Harry and the two Weasleys, "I wish to have a word with you in my office."

Harry spun around, his mouth hanging stupidly open. "Er," he said, "now?"

"Now, Potter."

"Right," said Harry. "Gin, Ron, I'll meet you later, all right? See if you can find Hermione and head off the post-exam meltdown."

"I love you," said Ginny Weasley--no, Severus reminded himself, recalling what he'd discovered through the Professorial grapevine while watching the examinations, Ginny _Potter_--before she kissed Harry on the cheek and led her brother away.

They walked to his office in silence. Severus didn't speak until he was seated at his desk with Harry standing before him, looking wholeheartedly confused.

"Potter," said Severus again, folding his hands on his desk. "It is time that we talked."

"Sir?"

"I was... unfair."

Something changed in Harry's face, his incredulity and surprise more than evident. "What?"

"I did not wholly anticipate that I would live through the Dark Lord's attempt on my life, and I was, perhaps, insufficiently prepared for the possibility that my memories would be put on public display in order to clear me while I was yet living."

"Oh." Harry's Adam's apple traveled up and down once, and he licked his lips.

Severus forced himself to meet Harry's eyes--green eyes--and found, to his surprise, that he had learned to prefer hazel. "I regret that I was less forgiving than I might have been, given your advocacy on my behalf."

"Sir," said Harry hastily, before Severus could say any more, "I'm sorry that I tried to pry into your--well, about you and my mum. Only I don't have much of her left, and I sort of--sometimes I hoped--it would've been nice to have some family..."

He trailed off, and Severus stared at him, the rest of his carefully rehearsed speech melting away from his thoughts. Harry had hoped that Severus might be his father--hoped it, at least sometimes, strongly enough to risk brewing a restricted potion to find out whether it might be true?

The paradigm shift was dramatic enough to leave him feeling almost dizzy. He'd carried with him for months a vague notion that Harry had been motivated merely by Gryffindor bravado and morbid curiosity. Once again, the strange and somewhat disturbing thought occurred to him that Harry Potter deserved nothing so much as pity.

"I was... not aware that you felt that way, Potter."

Harry avoided meeting his eyes, and swallowed again several times before he spoke, his voice very slightly uneven. "You knew her better than even Remus or Sirius did. I guess I just thought, maybe if there was--well, I'm sorry, anyway. I shouldn't have done it."

"It is--I understand the impulse," said Severus, surprising himself.

Evidently, it surprised Harry even more, because he was unable to come up with a sufficient response.

Severus drew a breath, closed his eyes, and thought of Hermione. "If you ever wish to know more about her, I... might, at some point in the future, not be averse to enlightening you." He opened his eyes and glared. "_Not_ at the present moment, mind you, but in the future."

"Wow," said Harry, in a very quiet voice. "I don't really know how--er--thanks."

Severus opened a desk drawer and removed a long, slim envelope addressed in green and sealed with silver ink and held it out. "You will need this, and several others, if you still intend to become an Auror," he said gruffly as Harry took the envelope, "even if you _are_ Harry Potter."

"A letter of recommendation?" said Harry, reading the direction on the envelope--_Ministry of Magic, Department of Aurors, London_--and looking more baffled than ever.

"You were never close to being your mother's equal in Potions, Potter, but you were... adequate, at least, and I feel able to give testimony to your diligence and ability in all areas of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, staring at the envelope as if he didn't quite believe it was real.

"I understand that congratulations are to be extended to you for your recent nuptials, Potter. Ginevra Weasley is an exceptional student." He suddenly felt himself out of his depth. He was not, no matter how much he loved Hermione, ready to make small talk with Harry Potter. "Now get out."

Once Harry was gone, Severus managed to count to ten before he got up from his desk and went in search of Hermione, filled with uncertainty and anticipation.

0 0 0

Hermione sat by the lake, underneath the tree with the secret room, her arms wrapped around her legs. The sun was warm on her face, and the breeze smelled sweet and familiar. She put her head down on her knees and closed her eyes, trying to dispel the melancholy that had come over her since she'd walked out of the Great Hall.

The grass was thick and lush, and so there was no noise to alert her to Professor Snape's approach until the moment at which he spoke.

"Miss Granger," he said quietly, "are you unwell?"

She jumped up, spinning around to face him and self-consciously brushing bits of grass off her clothes.

"It doesn't matter," she said, aware that her cheeks were burning and her eyes swimming with as-yet unshed tears.

"It matters very much," he murmured, his voice intense enough to make her knees feel suddenly unsteady, although his face remained controlled and impassive.

"It's just the same old things--my mum and dad, everything that's happened this year, and now the end of term and everybody going away--and I know I just need to get over it. I know. You don't need to tell me; everyone else already has." She sniffled loudly, hating herself for her inability to keep her mouth closed and to keep from crying in front of the man she most wished to convince of her adulthood.

He raised his eyebrows. "'Everyone else,' in that case, can go to hell."

She was so shocked that she completely forgot that she'd been on the verge of tears. "I beg your pardon?"

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice still soft, taking a step closer to her. "I... am not an eloquent man when it comes to… personal matters--but I am an honest one."

He was looking at her with such intensity that she almost wanted to back away. The mirror hadn't lied, then, except to mute the passion that he was capable of expressing with a mere look. He hadn't said anything revealing, exactly. He'd been sympathetic, but circumspect--but the look in his eyes took her breath away.

"Sir," she whispered, "I--"

"Miss Granger," he said quickly, drawing back, "it is not--I did not mean to discomfit you."

"No, it isn't that at all. I just--well--" She felt her cheeks growing hot again, and she looked away. She could feel him staring at her and she chewed nervously on her lip, digging her teeth into it.

"Don't do that," he said abruptly.

She looked up at him, perhaps a little too quickly. "What?"

"That," he said, and then, to her great surprise, he raised his hand and touched the pad of this thumb very softly to the swollen, red spot on her lip where her teeth had worried it.

"Oh," she said stupidly, looking up to meet his eyes.

A moment later, she realized that it had been very, very foolish indeed to look at his face. He was looking at her mouth (where his thumb, Merlin help her, still rested) with an absorption that she had never seen before. Very slowly, very hesitantly he moved his thumb over her lip.

She closed her eyes.

"Miss Granger," he said again, his voice sounding somewhat strangled now. "I would give you--I would do anything for--that is to say--" he seemed to be fumbling desperately for words. She had a vague sense that she ought to help him, ought to say something, but she couldn't. She couldn't do anything but stand there, mesmerized by his feather-light touch on her face.

He paused a moment, his thumb still on her lip. His palm rested on the curve of her jaw and cheek, and she could feel his fingertips resting very lightly on her temple. He swallowed, making a manful effort to compose himself.

"With all that there is... between us," he whispered, "surely it has not escaped your notice that I--how I--Miss Granger," he said once more, apparently taking refuge in the sound of her name, the same old familiar name that he had called her by for so many years. "Miss Granger--_Hermione_--I love you."

"You...do?" she asked, feeling like more of an idiot than ever the minute the words left her.

He drew a little closer, the same, intense expression on his face. "You doubt it?" he whispered. "You are a part of me, as much as this hand--or this one." He lifted his other hand, touching her hair carefully, as if afraid that she might run away from him. "How could I do anything but love you?"

"I thought that the enchantment wasn't supposed to make people fall in love, was it?"

Something changed in his face and he abruptly removed his hands from her head. "No," he said softly, and she knew that her question had wounded him. She felt like a fool.

"That isn't what I--oh, no, don't go," she said miserably, catching him by his sleeve as he turned away from her. "Please don't go. The way you said it, I--I don't know what I meant to ask. I was just afraid that perhaps you thought--"

"What difference does it make?" he said despondently. "Do not trouble yourself on my account, Miss Granger. I shall not speak of it again."

"You don't understand!"

"I understand perfectly," he snarled, "and I do not require your pity!"

"I'm not offering you pity! I'm offering you--I'm offering--" what was she offering? Her mouth was open, stuck halfway through a sentence. He had fixed his eyes on her once more, completely still. Even the sound of his breathing ceased.

"I love you too," she said lamely, and her voice sounded very young and very foolish after his impassioned declaration.

0 0 0

"And you'll see if Snape will let you have a week off sometime before the start of term so that you can come and visit us, won't you?" said Ginny for the third time, as Harry levitated her trunk onto the Hogwarts Express.

"Of course," said Hermione, smiling brightly. A moment later, Ron seized her and lifted her off the ground, hugging her so tightly that she thought her ribs might crack.

"Oh for heaven's sake, put her down," grumbled Ginny. "It isn't as if this is goodbye for good. You're going to see her at the next Order meeting."

"You can't talk," said Ron, hugging her still tighter before he set her down on the ground again to rub her sides and try to get her breath back. "Where's Neville? Oi! Neville! Come say goodbye to Hermione!"

"Oh," said Hermione, "Ron, that's okay, I'll see him at--"

But Neville was there, suddenly, his eyes dark and sad as he looked at her. "Goodbye, Hermione," he said softly.

"Don't be an ass, Neville," said Ron, slapping Neville on the back. "You'll see her at the next Order meeting. Give her a hug and stop looking like Dolores Umbridge just married your pet toad."

Neville's hug was a much more subdued affair than Ron's, a short, tender embrace. "I'll always love you," he whispered into her ear, just before he pulled away, his face red.

"Remember the first day on the Hogwarts Express?" said Harry, who had returned just in time to hear Ron's last comment. "When Neville lost his toad? We might never have been friends if not for that."

Hermione smiled, though a lump had suddenly formed in her throat. "I love you, Harry," she said softly, holding her arms out to him. He, like Ron, picked her up and hugged her tightly, his face buried in the mass of her hair, which she'd left to fall free.

"We'll see you soon, Hermione," said Ginny. "Come on, everyone. The train's going in just another minute."

Hermione stood and watched them board--all except Harry, who lingered next to her for a few more moments.

"It's the end of an era, isn't it?" he said forlornly, looking over her shoulder at the towers of the castle, rising above the trees.

Hermione, not trusting herself to speak, nodded.

"You'll come and visit us, won't you?"

She nodded again, forcing a rather watery smile and dashing the tears from her eyes with one hand.

"Don't cry." He hugged her again, and she felt the rasp of his stubble on her cheek. When had Harry stopped being Harry and become this married, grown-up man? When had she become a woman in love? "We'll see you soon," he whispered into her hair. "I love you, Hermione."

"I love you, Harry." She swallowed, forcing herself not to cry. This, strangely, was a far more final end to their youthful adventures than the death of Voldemort had been. "Now get on the train, you ass, before it leaves without you."

0 0 0

Severus stood at the balcony of the astronomy tower, looking down at the landscape that spread out in every direction around the school. In the distance, he could see the smoke rising from the train as it departed for London, and he knew that Hermione, _his_ Hermione, was there at the station, watching the train pull away, bearing with it the last vestiges of her childhood.

When the last wisp of smoke was gone, he turned his back on the vista below. He left all of it behind him, from the most distant point on the horizon to the spot where he had last seen the man who had, in another life, been his most beloved friend and his most hated enemy.

Hermione would return, and he would be waiting for her at the gates, ready to take her hand and walk with her back home.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I didn't realize this would be the end until I was about a thousand words away from the end of the chapter. I cried very hard writing that thousand words. 

Epilogue (and probably sequel) to follow.

I can't believe I just wrote the last chapter.

Oh my God.


	62. Epilogue

DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

Portions of dialogue in this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, pages 753-759.**  
**

* * *

**Epilogue**

* * *

It was nearly six months before he kissed her lips. 

By that time, he had kissed her forehead, her neck, the delicate white undersides of her wrists, and each new burn and scar that her hands had acquired as the months had passed, but never her lips. There was something sacrosanct about them, in his mind. He was almost afraid to touch them.

He rarely used her first name, either. She was Miss Granger always, except in his most ardent moments. She bore it with good grace, laughing at him for it, and smiling with more and more ease as days and weeks went by.

Always, always, she was the loveliest woman he had ever beheld.

He kissed her for the first time in the laboratory storeroom, on a Sunday afternoon, shortly before teatime.

He couldn't say afterwards what finally pushed him to it. She wasn't meant to be in the storeroom. She was meant to be in London, buying books for the library at Spinner's End, which they had set about enlarging.

And so, when he walked into the storeroom, his thoughts occupied with teaching simple jinxes and hexes to first years, and checking to see whether he had enough boomslang skin, he was completely surprised to find her there, taking an inventory.

"Severus!" she cried, her face lighting up.

"Miss Granger. I believed that you were in London."

"I'm just back, and I thought I'd step in and start the weekly inventory before tea. What did you need? I'll fetch it for you."

He moved forward, stretching a hand out as if to take something from the shelf behind her. Instead, he wrapped his it around her waist and drew her close to him, crushing her to his chest and enfolding her in both of his arms. "I need only you, Hermione," he whispered into her hair, inhaling its sweet fragrance when he drew breath.

She nuzzled her face into the side of his neck, the sensation strangely changed when he felt it through scar tissue. "I love you," she murmured.

"And I you." He pulled at one of her curls, twisting it around his fingers.

She raised her face to him then, looking up and smiling a tender, womanly smile, one that her lips had learned to make only in the months since he had first taken her into his arms. Before he knew what he was about, he had bent down and pressed his mouth to hers.

If she stiffened in surprise, it was for a moment so brief that Severus didn't notice it. Her arms tightened around him, and her mouth responded delightfully to his. An age of waiting and desiring was satisfied by that kiss, and a new one begun.

They did not emerge for a long time.

0 0 0

_Nineteen Years Later..._

Autumn arrived unexpectedly, September first dawning crisp and cool, with hardly a previous day of chill to herald its coming. Hermione disentangled herself from Severus, getting out of bed for the third time that morning. Bending over to kiss him once more before she dashed out the door, still buttoning the sleeves of her robes, she set off in a hurry so as not to be late to meet Ron and the children in London. She left Severus behind, muttering irritable things into his pillow about Ronald Weasley's bloody inability to take his children to meet the train without help.

She Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron with just enough time to have a cup of tea before Ron, Hugo and Rose arrived. She was waiting outside for them when they finally got there, puttering up in an ancient car that appeared barely able to contain Ron, the two children, and Rose's trunk and owl.

"Good gracious, Ron," she said, surveying the car. "Where did you find _that_?"

"Dad fixed me up with it. Hop on in, Hermione. It doesn't go terribly fast, and we don't want to be late."

"Hello, darlings," said Hermione, bestowing kisses and sweets on the two children in the back of the car. "How's your mum?"

"Brilliant!" said Hugo. "She was in _The Prophet_ this morning!"

"Did the Harpies win, then?"

"Katie Weasley," said Ron, grinning, "leading Holyhead to victory again."

"Where's uncle Severus?" asked Rose, sounding disappointed. "I thought he was going to be here. I already put on my new robes so he could see."

"He had to stay at home and take care of Aurora. She's too little to be left alone. You'll see him when you get to Hogwarts, though, and I'm sure he'll love your new robes; you look absolutely lovely."

"Is she awfully big?"

"She's a baby," said Hugo matter-of-factly. "Babies aren't big."

"She could be big for a baby."

"That she could," said Ron. "What's the weather like in Hogsmeade, Hermione? I wasn't sure if I should have Rose wear her cloak or not."

"She might as well leave it off until they're across the lake. Dudley's no better than Hagrid at keeping the first years from getting soaked through to the bone, poor things. I ought to talk to Severus about it. It can't be healthy."

"Don't be daft. It wouldn't be first year at Hogwarts without starting it off with an introduction to the giant squid."

"It's _real_?" squeaked Rose, bouncing in her seat.

"'Course it is," said Hugo knowledgeably.

"Here we are," said Ron. "Everybody out."

It took several minutes to get the children and Rose's luggage extricated from the car. Hermione and Ron loaded the trunk onto a trolley (with a little surreptitious wandwork by Ron when he thought that Hermione wasn't looking) and let the children push it together through the station.

"Where are they?" squealed Rose, as soon as they'd made it through the barrier and pushed the trolley down to the last carriage, which Ron insisted was the best.

"I don't see them yet," said Hermione, squinting through the thick clouds of vapor that surrounded them all, and then-- "Here they come, Rose."

"Hi," said Albus Potter with a tone of greatest relief at having found them.

Rose positively glowed.

"Parked all right, then?" said Ron, shoving his hands in his pockets and grinning at Harry. "I did. Hermione didn't believe I could pass a Muggle driving test, did you? She thought I'd have to Confund the examiner."

Hermione, who had been picking grass out of Hugo's messy red hair, glanced up. "No I didn't," she said, somewhat untruthfully. "I had complete faith in you."

Harry and Ron disappeared into the fog, lugging trunks and cages onto the train, while Lily Potter made her way over to Hugo and began an anxious conference about Sorting.

"James says Al's going to be in Slytherin," said Lily conspiratorially.

"If you're not in Gryffindor, we'll disinherit you, but no pressure" said Ron, re-emerging from the fog just in time to catch the comment. He ruffled up Hugo's hair, which did nothing for his overall appearance. Hermione thought fleetingly of a very similar-looking redhead standing on the platform with a smudge of dirt on his nose, many years ago.

"Ron," she said, disapprovingly. The younger children laughed, but Hermione didn't miss the uncertain look exchanged by Rose and Albus. "He doesn't mean it," she said comfortingly, slipping each of them another sweet.

"Look who it is," muttered Ron, and Hermione glanced up just in time to catch sight of Draco Malfoy through the mist. Her stomach clenched anxiously, and she moved her hand to her sleeve, checking for her wand with an habitual gesture. He noticed them only a moment after they noticed him, and he nodded sharply before turning his back on them.

"So that's little Scorpius," said Ron softly. "Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains."

"Ron, for heaven's sake," said Hermione softly. She had developed a substantial soft spot in her heart for young Slytherins since marrying their most beloved Professor and, for his sake, was trying to be charitable, even to Scorpius Malfoy. "Don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school."

"You're right, sorry," said Ron. Then, casting another look towards the Malfoy family, which was rapidly disappearing in the fog again, he nudged his daughter gently. "Don't get _too_ friendly with him, though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pureblood."

"Hey!" cried James, sprinting through the mist, panting for breath. "Teddy's back there," he cried, pointing in the direction from which he'd just come running. "Just seen him! And guess what he's doing?_ Snogging Victoire_!"

Ron and Harry laughed.

"I'm just going to go have a word with them," said Hermione to Ginny, unnoticed by the rest. "I won't be a minute. Severus and I want to see if Teddy and Andromeda will take Aurora for us while we're away next month. He's taking me to France for my birthday."

Ginny nodded, and Hermione set off through the dense clouds of steam. By the time she was back, the children were loaded onto the train and waving goodbye as it slowly began to pull away.

Harry stood still, following its motion only with his eyes, his hand in the air as he watched the train carry his thin, green-eyed son away.

"He'll be all right," murmured Ginny.

Harry dropped his hand, linking his arm in hers. "I know he will."

"Well," said Ron, holding Hugo in his arms, "that was harder than I thought. I understand why mum always acted the way she did."

"Yeah," said Harry, running his hand through his hair.

"Makes me glad that Severus and I live at the school," said Hermione, thinking forlornly of their days riding to Hogsmeade on the train. "I don't think I could bear to put Aurora on the train and not see her for an entire term."

"She's still so little," said Ginny, patting her arm. "Believe me, by the time she's eleven, you'll be glad to have her sleeping in a dormitory and not running about underfoot all the time."

Harry checked his watch. "We ought to go. My lunch hour's nearly over."

Hermione hugged Ron, kissed Hugo (to his great dismay), squeezed Ginny's hand and received another hug from Harry. "I'll let you know the next time I'm coming in to London," she said, smiling brightly. "Severus sends his love."

"Oh," said Harry, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small book. "Give this back to him. Tell him I really enjoyed it."

She took the book and smiled. "I will."

Turning on her heel, she disappeared, arriving at the gates of Hogwarts where, so many years ago, Severus had met her and asked her to be his wife, the very day he'd first declared his love for her.

The walk up to the school was pleasant, the air just chilly enough to make her feel awake and alive. Inside the castle, her husband and baby daughter waited for her. She took a deep breath of early autumn air, and smiled as she opened the doors to the Entrance Hall.

Nothing had turned out as she'd expected it to; all of it was better than she could have dreamed. She descended the stairs to the dungeons and the home they had shared since their wedding night. Severus drew her into his arms with a welcoming kiss as soon as she was through the door. A cross-breeze blew through the room and slammed the door shut behind her, waking the baby.

She went and gathered their daughter into her arms, shushing her gently.

"All's well, my love," she murmured, leaning into Severus' chest as he came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. "All is well."

* * *

It's been an amazing experience, writing this fic. Readers, reviewers, idea-bouncers and pseudo-betas, you all have my neverending thanks. I never imagined, when I started this, how long it would go, and how many wonderful people I'd meet along the way.

I've already begun a new story. Keep your eyes open for it, everyone!


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